


Isolated Elements

by elementalv



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-08
Updated: 2005-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 49,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementalv/pseuds/elementalv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy is dead, and Giles is grieving. The last thing he wants is to be ordered to Las Vegas to authenticate a stolen sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Isolated Elements

“Rupert?” Though the connection wasn’t very good, Giles recognized the voice on the other end of the phone easily enough.

“Yes, Quentin.” He tucked the receiver between his ear and shoulder as he continued sorting through the shop’s paperwork.

“It’s been some time since we last heard from you,” Travers said, his tone neutral, his words as measured and even as when he’d fired Giles.

“It was my understanding that reports are essentially pointless once the Slayer dies. Did things really change that much whilst I was off the payroll?” He shook his head and immediately regretted it. For much of the morning, he’d been staring at sales reports, quarterly tax statements and snide notes Anya had attached to various files, and his head was already pounding as a result. Dealing with the Council in the form of Quentin Travers was just too much, and he was half convinced his head would explode.

Travers said quietly, “You were her Watcher for five years, Rupert. I would have thought you might wish to talk with Sam Zabuto.” When Giles said nothing, he added, “Sam understands what it is to lose one’s Slayer. He’s worried that you’re cutting yourself off from those who can help you through this difficult time.”

“He’s worried.”

Quentin’s harsh exhalation clearly signaled the limit of his patience. “We’re all concerned.”

“The last time you were here, you spoke of her as a weapon.” Giles clenched his jaw hard against the memory then continued, “So forgive me if I can’t help but think you’re calling for some reason other than to find out why I’m not crying on Mr. Zabuto’s shoulder.”

“At the moment,” came the dry response, “you’re making an excellent case for discouraging future Watchers from forming personal attachments to their Slayer.”

Giles reached up to grip the receiver, remembering with irrational regret that during his brief stint as a Fyarl demon, he’d been able to crush hard plastic with a careless squeeze. He took a deep breath before saying, “Thank you ever so much for caring enough to gloat. If there’s nothing else —”

“There is,” Travers interrupted. “And for the record, I didn’t call to gloat. Despite our difference of opinion regarding the role and function of the Slayer, I had the utmost respect for Miss Summers. She was a remarkable young woman, due in no small part to your efforts, I’m sure.”

His throat tightening at the sincere regret in Travers’ voice, Giles lost the fine rage that had been building up since answering the phone. “Thank you.”

“You need to leave Sunnydale, Rupert. It’s not healthy for you to remain there.”

“I know,” he said, hating the sound of defeat in his voice. “It’s just that the robot isn’t —”

“— a Slayer, I know. And I can think of any of a half dozen other reasons off the top of my head that make for an excellent argument for you to remain.”

“So you understand —” The bell on the door jingled, and Giles looked up to see Dawn walk in. He lowered his voice, “You understand, then, why I haven’t made an effort to return to England.”

“What I understand is that you’re in serious danger of losing yourself.” The sound of concern in Travers’ voice broke through and made him consider the other man’s viewpoint for a moment.

Still, Giles was nothing if not stubborn. “I’m needed here.”

“You’re needed here more. The Council would very much like your insights with regard to the training of potentials, and God knows, the program at Oxford could certainly benefit from your field experience.” Before Giles could respond, Travers added, “But if England is a bit too far for you at the moment, your expertise would be useful in the next state over.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hunched over his desk, Giles removed his glasses and slipped one of the stems into his mouth.

“There’s been a request for help from the Las Vegas Police Department.”

Giles hunched down further. “Are demons involved?”

“Remarkably, no. The request matches one of your other areas of expertise — antiquities. They could use your input on a sword that came into their possession following the recovery of stolen goods.”

“Quentin —”

“Granted, the city is rather tawdry, but I’m told it can be quite distracting. The change of pace will do you good,” Travers said, sounding rather self-satisfied.

“You can’t seriously expect me to —”

“Rupert, you do recall that I can have you deported, don’t you?”

“You bastard —”

“Indeed. I’ve already informed the authorities in Las Vegas that you’ll be there tonight —”

“Tonight?”

“— so I suggest you go home and pack. Your flight leaves this afternoon at 4:30. A ticket is waiting for you —”

“Damn you!”

“— at the Southwest Airlines counter. I suggest you pack for at least a week’s stay. You’ll be met at McCarran by a Mr. Gilbert Grissom. He’s the night supervisor of — er, Criminalistics.” As Travers reeled off the contact number, Giles scrambled to find a pen in time to write it down. “He’ll provide the particulars of your lodgings. Have a good trip, Rupert. Do be sure to send me a postcard, won’t you?”

When Travers hung up without permitting Giles to object further, he jerked the phone from its cord and threw it across the store. Dawn jumped, looking frightened, and Anya glared when she saw that he’d knocked several candles to the floor.

Giles stood there for a moment, catching his breath and trying to calm down. Up until that moment, he’d been very careful not to let any of the children see him as anything other than calm and collected in his grief. Travers owed him for helping to destroy that particular illusion, and Giles planned to collect in full as soon as he could.

“Anya, it seems that I shall be away for several days. Do try not to summon any trolls in my absence.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Dawn, please let Willow and Tara know that I won’t be able to sit with you tonight.” Giles didn’t look at her.

“You’ll be back, though, right?” Her voice quavered with the uncertainty of one who’d lost too much in too short a time.

With that, he did look at her, his gaze softening. “Without question.”

*****

Giles was in his loft, packing, when the others arrived. Xander called up, “Yo, Giles! Dawn says you’re leavin’. On a jet plane, even.” After pausing for a response which didn’t come, Xander asked, “What’s up with that?”

His shaving kit was the last item to go in, and Giles zipped the suitcase before pulling it from the bed. At the top of the stairs, he looked down at Xander and the others, noting their concern. “The Watchers’ Council has need of my services elsewhere for the next few days.” Giles started down the steps. “I’m not sure yet where I’ll be staying, but you can reach me at —” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. Handing it to Willow, he continued, “You can reach me at this number. Gilbert Grissom is my contact if you can’t reach me directly.”

Worried, Willow asked, “Where are they sending you?”

“Er, Las Vegas, actually,” he said, slightly embarrassed by the destination.

“Is it about a new Slayer? Because if it is, it’s totally unfair to ask you to —”

Giles interrupted Willow with, “No. Not a new Slayer. They’re certain the line continues through Faith now.”

Even more confused, Willow looked at the others for support. “Is it something mystical? Because I could go with you and —” Her voice trailed off as Giles stared at her. “— Or maybe not.”

“Why would you need to go with me?”

Giles saw the looks between Willow and Xander, and he couldn’t understand why they hesitated to say anything. Just as he was about to ask again, Tara stammered, “We’re worried about you, Mr. Giles.”

Genuinely bewildered, he asked, “Worried? Why?”

After another exchange of glances, Xander blurted out, “You’re going to Vegas? That’s great! You can catch a few shows.”

When Xander elbowed Anya and gave her a pointed look, she said with false cheer, “Yes! It’s great! Just like Xander said!”

Giles looked at Anya with concern, suspicion and not a small amount of fear. “I suppose so. But that doesn’t explain why —”

“They have legalized prosti —”

Dawn rolled her eyes and cut Anya off with, “They’re worried you’re going to kill yourself.” She immediately clapped her hand to her mouth, obviously horrified by what she’d just said.

“In Las Vegas?” was his confused response.

“No, silly!” Anya smiled brightly and inappropriately. “Here in Sunnydale! They think you’re —”

Xander said sharply, “Anya!”

Giles looked at the rest of them and saw the confirmation in their eyes. “How could you possibly think such a thing?”

“Well, it’s not like you’re sleeping all that well,” Xander said, the accusation tempered by defensiveness.

“And you used to eat incessantly at the shop,” Anya said. “Munch, munch, munch, all day long. Now it’s a victory if I can get you to eat a hard-boiled egg.”

“It’s kinda like you’re — well —” Willow gave Tara a helpless look.

Stepping into the breach, Tara said, “You’re showing the classic signs of depression.” Giles noted absently that when Tara was confident of her words, she didn’t stammer. “And depression can lead to thoughts of suicide, especially now. When you’re grieving so deeply.”

Giles sighed. And then he gave himself a mental kick for having imagined that the children hadn’t noticed. He removed his glasses and pulled out his handkerchief to polish them, speaking as he looked down at his hands. “I’m not suicidal. You needn’t worry about that.”

Willow said solemnly, “It might help us believe if you said that again while you’re looking at us.”

His head shot up, and he stared at Willow. “I’m not going to kill myself.” Looking each of them in the eye, he said clearly and distinctly, “I wouldn’t leave you like that.”

“Promise?” Dawn’s question was heartbreaking mixture of disbelief and hope.

“I promise,” Giles answered, touching her hair lightly. After a moment, he recalled himself and the situation. Injecting a note of purpose into his voice, he said, “Right. My flight leaves in approximately an hour and a half. Are you all accompanying me to the airport?”

*****

After standing for two hours in McCarran Airport’s lost and oversize baggage claim area, Giles experienced more than a little sympathy for the pair of cross-country skis propped up behind the counter. They didn’t belong in the desert anymore than he did, and they looked as pathetic as he felt.

As his time at the counter had continued unabated, he’d grown more and more convinced that he would be left there forever, with only the airport’s housekeeping staff available to clear the cobwebs from his hair — if they even noticed him. It was absurd, he knew, worrying about such things after such a relatively short wait, though it didn’t stop his imagination from creating ever more ludicrous fantasies. Despite his pessimism, he was certain that Mr. Grissom would make an appearance at some point — the night operator at Criminalistics had assured him of that each of the four times he called.

Giles fondled the cell phone in his pocket. He really should thank Xander for forcing Anya to loan him hers for the trip. Otherwise, he would have been forced to drag his luggage with him every time he wanted to check on Mr. Grissom's location.

Sadly, the convenience of the cell phone in no way made up for the fact that the baggage claim area at McCarran could double as Dante’s Fourth Ring of Hell. The overwhelming background noise, the hyperactive people fiercely determined to escape and the pervasive sense of desperation all conspired to make him feel as if he were back in the halls of Sunnydale High School. Several times, he’d had to remind himself in no uncertain terms that the benighted building was little more than a pile of rubble, and since he’d escaped that Hellmouth, he would escape this one. Eventually. Even if it were necessary to sacrifice the next screaming passenger he heard.

The only other thing keeping him sane as he waited was working out how best to murder Travers. Though quite certain he wanted Travers dead, Giles was even more certain he wanted to torture the prat for as long as possible before the man’s heart gave out — assuming he actually had a heart, and the jury was still out on that one.

After considering and discarding possible implements, he ultimately decided that a Xirxian blade would do nicely. It wasn’t actually sharp enough to draw blood. Instead, it worked on the nerve endings of a victim, causing them to —

“Rupert Giles?”

Giles looked up to see a man roughly his own age. He had a hopeful expression, and Giles briefly considered saying no, if only to watch the man’s face fall. It was difficult to shake off the mildly cruel impulse. “Yes. Are you Mr. Grissom?”

“I am. And I’m also very late — sorry about that.” The man looked down. “Are these your bags?”

Giles reached down and took the handle of his duffle. “Yes. Both of them.”

Grissom bent down to pick up the suitcase, talking all the while. “I would have been here sooner, but I got called to a crime scene. How long have you been waiting?” He started walking toward the exit, not waiting to see if Giles was following.

Too wrung out by his rage toward Quentin, the universe and the hellish atmosphere of the baggage claim area, Giles could do nothing but tell the truth. “Two hours. I was told you would meet me on arrival.”

“Like I said —”

“And then every time I called your office, the night operator promised me that you were just about to drive up.”

“There was —”

“Four times, if you’re interested,” he added, unexpectedly relentless in his determination to make Grissom suffer in some small way. Perhaps he hadn’t shaken off that impulse to cruelty after all.

“I was called out on a case —”

“One that not only prevented you from coming to the airport, but also sending one of your minions?”

Grissom stopped just shy of the door and looked at Giles. “I like to call them CSIs.”

At that, Giles blinked, reviewing what he’d just said. He felt his face grow warm and hoped with all his heart that he wasn’t actually blushing. “Oh. Yes. I see.” After a beat, he added, “Actually, I don’t see. There truly was no one you could have sent in your place? Even a phone call to let me know where you’re putting me up would have been better than leaving me to rot — to wait here.”

Looking a bit confused, Grissom asked, “You don’t know where you’re staying?”

“No,” he said, dragging the word out. “I was given to understand that your office was handling all the arrangements.” Giles dipped his head slightly, looking at Grissom over the top of his glasses. “Your office did, in fact, handle all the arrangements, did it not?”

Grissom opened his mouth then closed it. After a moment, he said, “To be honest, I don’t remember if I asked anyone to get a hotel room for you.”

“Right.” Giles pulled his suitcase from Grissom’s hand and looked around. When he spotted the signs directing passengers to departing flights, he said, “I’m going back to Sunnydale. Be sure to give me a ring when you’re actually prepared to have me in town.”

“Dr. Giles, wait!”

At the touch of Grissom’s hand on his elbow, Giles turned around quickly. “I prefer Mr. Giles —”

“Mr. Giles, then.” Grissom reached down and tugged the suitcase away from him. “I’m sorry. We’ve had a lot going on over the last few weeks, and I’m pretty sure I forgot to ask anyone about getting you a room. I’m sorry.” He cautiously placed his hand on Giles’ elbow and steered him back toward the doors. “It’s not a huge problem.”

“It is if I have any hope of going to bed tonight,” Giles answered under his breath.

“I have a guest room which you’re more than welcome to use,” Grissom said, giving no indication that he’d heard Giles’ muttering. “It’s not the Savoy, I’ll grant you, but I have all the modern conveniences.”

They were outside by this time, with Grissom walking toward a no-parking zone. Giles followed, scrabbling at his neck to loosen his tie and undo the top button on his shirt. “Is it always this bloody hot at night?”

“Only in the middle of summer. Don’t worry. It should be down to one hundred or so by the time midnight rolls around.” Grissom pressed a button on his key fob, and the rear hatch of his SUV opened up. He put the suitcase in then reached for the duffle, nearly dropping it when Giles released it. “What do you have in here?”

“Just a few books I thought might be helpful.” Giles looked around, unable and unwilling to shake off five years of experience learned in Sunnydale. Though the pick-up area was well lit and well populated, even at this time of night, there were still dark areas where a vampire might be lying in wait. Part of him hoped they were there. If his behavior toward Grissom was any indication, he thought he might be spoiling for a fight.

Grissom grunted slightly as he heaved the duffle into the back. “You know, we have Internet access at the lab and full access to UNLV’s library.”

“Oh? The school has a copy of Eurypides’ Encyclopedia of Swords from the First Age?” Yes. He was, without question, being an absolute pillock. And there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop himself. If he could forgive the man for being the reason he was dragged away from Sunnydale in the first place, there might be a chance, but —

“The playwright?”

“Different Eurypides.” His small mean streak didn’t appear to be ready to resolve itself any time soon. For all of half a second, Giles wondered if he could spell himself to shut up, and then he pictured Amy Madison, still a rat two and a half years after she performed magic on herself. With his luck, he’d magic away his mouth.

“Oh.” After a moment, Gil added, “I’m sure the school could get a copy if you needed it.”

“Remarkable. The last I heard, there were only three copies extant in North America,” Giles said, heading to the passenger door and getting in one last dig. “Two of which are owned by private collections on the East Coast.”

Giles thought he heard him mutter, “Of course.”

*****

With sunset a distant memory, Giles was hit by the full effect of the Strip as Grissom negotiated his truck through heavy traffic. The lights were garish and tacky and altogether unnerving for someone who’d spent the better part of five years adjusting to life in Sunnydale, with its quiet and dark streets a haven for the worst evil to be found in the world.

Stopping opposite the Bellagio and putting the SUV in park, Grissom pointed and said, “They have a fountain show set to music. It’s nice.”

Giles made a noncommittal grunt in reply.

“You don’t care about the fountains, do you?” Grissom glanced at him sideways.

“Not particularly, no.” Giles shook his head, willing himself to let go of his anger for at least long enough to get through the ride. He took a deep, cleansing breath and then another for good measure. “I apologize. My employers insisted that I come here, and I’m taking my bad mood out on you. Despite the fact that you left me sitting at the airport for far too long, you don’t deserve it.”

“Well. Two hours is a long time to wait at baggage claim,” Grissom offered carefully as he watched Giles. It hurt, knowing he’d caused a wary reaction in the man, and Giles felt like even more of a heel than he already did. The worst part, however, was knowing that despite any resolutions he might make to do better, he wouldn’t. There was just too much ang — grief inside, and it was bubbling up at bad moments.

“Lost baggage is quite possibly the most depressing place I’ve ever been in, and that’s after working three years in a high school library.” He clenched his jaw against the urge to complain further and took another deep breath. “I know you haven’t any reason to believe me, but truly, I’m generally not an utter bastard.”

Giles tolerated the man’s scrutiny to the point where he was starting to get uncomfortable. It was then that Grissom held out his hand, offering, “Care to start again? Gil Grissom.”

“Rupert Giles,” he said, shaking Grissom’s hand. “I understand you have a sword which requires authentication?” Giles kept his face as neutral as he could, willing himself to behave like an adult, rather than a spoiled, sulky teenager.

“Yes, I do. I hope you’ll find it to be an interesting specimen.”

“I’m sure I will.”

There was an awkward silence, and Grissom broke it with, “Okay. I think we’ve covered the social niceties.” He glanced down at the clock in the dashboard. “Are you hungry?”

Giles glanced down as well. It was twenty minutes to ten, which meant that Spike and the others would be out on patrol already. He wished he were with them. Killing something right about now would make him feel immensely better.

“Not particularly, no.”

“Did you get something to eat at the airport?”

Looking out the passenger window, Giles answered absently, “No. I wasn’t hungry.”

Grissom paused for a moment, glancing at Giles before saying, “So you had a late lunch before you left Sunnydale?”

“No —” Giles turned his head to frown at Grissom. “Why all the interest in when I last ate?”

“Possibly because I’m hungry, and I want to stop and get some food.” Grissom turned right, driving along a street that had no casinos lining it. “You like steak?”

“In general, I approve of the concept,” he said cautiously, “but at the moment, I’m not hungry, so your question is rather pointless.”

“I take it this means you’re going to sit and watch while I have dinner?” Though the question was mild enough, Giles easily heard the underlying bite in the man’s voice.

“It could also mean that I’ve no objection to you dropping me at your place — or possibly at any one of the dozen or so hotels we just passed — before you go have something to eat on your own.” When Grissom didn’t respond immediately, Giles went back to looking out the window, certain the other man would be happy to be rid of him for the night.

They rode in silence for the next ten minutes or so, and Giles kept his focus on the passing scenery — such as it was. When Grissom turned onto a side street and again almost immediately, Giles asked with a bit of asperity, “You live in a strip mall?”

“No, I eat at a strip mall.” Grissom’s tone was equable, though Giles was happy to see that he’d managed to make the man grip the steering wheel a bit with his question.

“I thought we agreed you would drop me off before you got something to eat.”

Grissom parked the truck and turned off the engine. He unbuckled his seat belt, saying, “Actually, you never came out and told me no, you didn’t want to watch me eat.” He stepped out onto the pavement before looking at Giles and cocking his head slightly. “Are you coming in with me, or are you going to stay out here?”

Giles bit out, “I’ll wait, thank you.”

Gil opened the door and got out. “I have to warn you that I’m not leaving the keys in the ignition — it’s against county policy — so you’re probably going to roast while I’m inside.” With that, Grissom shut the door and walked away.

“Bloody inconsiderate —” Giles bit off a few more epithets then finally untangled himself from the seatbelt and got out of the SUV.

As the door slammed closed, he heard Grissom say, “Glad you decided to join me. They have a pretty decent filet mignon here.”

Giles closed his eyes and counted to ten in Greek. When he opened them again, it was to direct a scowl at his host. “How can a restaurant in a strip mall possibly serve a cut of meat with any degree of distinction?”

“You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Rupert —” Grissom paused at the glare Giles directed at him. “— Mr. Giles. Ruth’s Chris Steak House serves excellent food. If this were a weekend, we wouldn’t have a chance in hell of getting a seat.”

Inside, the host greeted Grissom by name, though with a certain reserve, and Giles idly wondered if the man had ever been called there on a case. They were seated after a brief wait, and as Giles looked around, he grudgingly admitted to himself that Grissom was right — he shouldn’t have been so quick to judge the place based on its location.

“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Aaron, and I’ll be your drink server. May I start either of you off with anything?”

“Coffee, please.” When Giles didn’t respond immediately, Grissom nudged him with his foot. “Mr. Giles? Anything for you?”

Busy noting the lack of the server’s reflection in his knife, Giles didn’t look up until Grissom kicked him. “I’m sorry?”

The waiter answered smoothly, “Would you like something to drink, sir?”

Giles frowned at him before he finally realized he could see the waiter’s reflection in the window glass. He relaxed slightly, asking, “Do you have single malt?”

“Yes, sir. The house brand is Glenfiddich.”

“I’ll have it neat.”

“Very good, sir. Your waiter tonight is David, and he’ll be along shortly to discuss the menu with you.” Aaron slid away with a grace Giles would have expected of a dancer and the arrogance of a lord.

He frowned at the young man’s back, murmuring, “Pretentious git.”

Grissom looked up at that, “Did you say something?”

“Nothing worth repeating.” Giles looked down at the table and fiddled with his flatware.

“Are you going to try the filet mignon?”

“No, I’m going to try the Glenfiddich.”

Grissom put his menu down with a small sigh. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Possibly a great deal.” Grissom gave Giles a speculative look. “Who knows? A good meal might even improve your temper.”

Giles opened his mouth to respond, but he stopped himself. If his mother could see the way he was acting, she would disown him on the spot — never mind that he was her only child. No matter how much he might wish it otherwise, his normal reticence just wouldn’t do. The man — Grissom — deserved an explanation. “Earlier, you mentioned that you’d had a difficult few weeks. I’ve had a difficult year.”

“It shows.”

Caught by Grissom’s blunt response, Giles stammered, “Yes. Well —”

“I can see you’re angry.”

“I’m not — You don’t understand.”

“I think I do,” Grissom said with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Are you depressed?”

Grissom asked the question as casually as he might have asked what kind of sweater someone was wearing, and for the life of him, Giles couldn’t quite find his earlier anger toward the man. Perhaps it was that there was a complete absence of compassion in Grissom’s voice, merely curiosity. The lack was a blessed relief after weeks of Willow and Tara and the rest giving him meaningful looks and trying to convince him to talk about his feelings.

“In February, a close friend died of complications following the removal of a brain tumor. A month and a half ago, I lost —” When his voice broke, Giles straightened himself in his seat. “I lost a young woman with whom I — I shared a very close relationship. I don’t think ‘depressed’ is the word I would use to describe my state of mind at present.”

“You said earlier that your employers made you come here. Why? Aren’t they aware of what’s been going on in your life?”

Giles answered quietly, “My employers seem to think a project of this sort is just the thing to take my mind off my losses.”

“You don’t have to be here. I’ll take you back to the airport —”

“No, don’t bother. My — er — supervisor was quite clear on the consequences should I refuse this assignment.” More and more uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Giles picked up the menu.

“Consequences? What consequences could be worth tolerating the aggravation you’ve been through tonight when you so clearly don’t want to be here?”

“I think I’ll try the filet mignon after all. And perhaps the asparagus as well.” Giles refused to look up, even when Aaron brought his drink.

“What consequences?”

Giles sighed. “Suffice it to say that my employers can be somewhat ruthless with regard to enforcing their decisions. My presence in Las Vegas was most decidedly the lesser of two evils.” He reached for his scotch and knocked it back with a swallow.

*****

Two hours after stopping at the restaurant, Grissom opened the door to his townhouse and stepped inside, carrying Giles’ suitcase. “Come in and make yourself comfortable.”

With a hint of disapproval in his voice, Giles asked, “Do you always invite perfect strangers into your home like this?”

“We’re not exactly strangers at this point,” Grissom answered, “but generally speaking, I don’t invite anyone into my home.”

Still standing in the doorway, Giles looked at the other man with deep suspicion. “Then why am I here and not at one of the several hundred hotels Las Vegas has?”

“Since the county foots the bill for visiting experts, a purchase order has to be cut for the hotel. The senior secretary at the lab, a woman by the name of Marjorie Crandall, is the one who handles that, and it’s far too late for me to send her to the office to start paperwork I should have requested last week.” Exasperated, Grissom added, “It’s okay to come in. I don’t bite.”

Giles stepped all the way inside and closed the door behind him, taking note of the stark appearance of the place as well as the butterfly cases that served as decoration. He leaned close to peer at the specimens. “You’re a lepidopterist?”

“When I was younger, yes. These days, I’m more into forensic entomology,” Grissom said, setting down the suitcase before joining Giles where he stood.

“Forensic entomology — you use insects to help determine time of death?” Giles made a small sound of approval as he examined one of the moths.

“Got it in one. Did you ever collect butterflies as a kid?”

“I was more interested in the adventures of Biggles than I was in capturing insects, I’m afraid.”

“Biggles?”

Giles straightened up, jumping slightly when he saw how close Grissom was to him. He cleared his throat. “A British — thing. You said something about a guest room?”

“Hm? Oh. Yeah. Right this way.”

*****

“Buffy, NO!”

Giles woke up in a cold sweat, gasping from the adrenaline release of the dream. His legs were tangled in the sheets, and he fought his way free of them, trying to determine exactly where he was. After a moment, memory returned, and he sat on the edge of the bed, relieved that he hadn’t, in fact, been kidnapped by an ambitious demon.

His peace lasted as long as it took for him to remember his host and to wonder if the man had returned home after his shift. The townhouse remained silent, and for that, Giles was immeasurably grateful. He’d already given Grissom more information about himself than he’d intended; having to explain a nightmare on top of that would just be too much.

A check of his watch after he turned on the bedside lamp told him it was a little past three in the morning. Since he’d only been managing two or three hours of sleep a night since Buffy’s — since her decision — he felt he was doing reasonably well on his first night from home.

Giles got out of bed and opened his suitcase in another fruitless search for his bathrobe. He was willing to swear on a stack of holy books that he’d packed the damn thing, but when he looked earlier, it wasn’t to be found.

As it still wasn’t to be found, he gathered up a change of clothes and made his way carefully to the bathroom. Sunrise was still far enough away that a quick patrol of the area was possible.

Perhaps he could work a bit of aggression out of his system before he had to deal with Grissom again.

*****

Grissom arrived at his second scene of the night — gang related, judging from the initial call — and approached Catherine and Sara from behind. What he heard made him stop.

“I can’t believe Grissom forgot to get the man a hotel room.” Sara slowly swept her flashlight across the ground, pausing when she spotted a glint of metal. “Found another casing.”

Catherine looked up from her own search. “Is that four or five?”

“Four.” Sara put down a marker and continued looking.

“Personally, I can’t believe Grissom invited him to stay at his place. Got a stray syringe over here. Can’t tell if it’s part of the crime scene or just local color.” Catherine frowned as she looked at it. The lack of dirt on the plastic apparently decided her, and she put another marker down before she photographed it and the area.

As Catherine took a picture, Sara looked up. “Do you think the victim dropped it?”

“I’m not sure. But someone lost it tonight. It’s too clean.” Catherine made a note then dropped the syringe into a sharps container.

“I’m still having a hard time picturing Grissom being social with anyone, let alone taking him to high-end restaurant. What’s that all about?”

Grissom couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Or maybe he could. His reputation was pretty much his own fault. “It was the least I could do after leaving him stranded at the airport for a couple of hours.” Grissom looked over the killing ground as Sara moved away from him. “Are you two about done here?”

“Pretty close, Gil.” Catherine stood up, holding several evidence containers. “Someone had drugs on him tonight. Not sure who, but I found a syringe.”

Grissom nodded then frowned slightly. “Is it really such a big surprise that I offered him my guest room?”

The evidence now safely stored in the back of her car, Catherine smiled at Grissom and made him feel as if he were a moderately dull child. “I’m surprised you have a guest room, never mind that you’re letting anyone in to use it.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“How long have we known each other?” When he didn’t respond, Catherine continued, “I respect the hell out of you, Gil, but you’re not good with people. That you managed to do the right thing tonight —” Her voice trailed off, and she patted him on the shoulder before rejoining Sara.

Grissom’s frown deepened as he considered her words.

*****

Twenty minutes after sunrise, Giles stood in the bathroom, hissing as he dabbed his injuries with alcohol. “Brilliant, Rupert. First night in town, and you have to look for sodding vampires. Was it absolutely necessary to find the thrice-damned things?”

The cut over his eye wasn’t deep, though it had bled profusely when the vampire inflicted it. He was more concerned about the swelling and potential bruising. Bad enough that he’d managed to antagonize Grissom almost from the start; he could only imagine the man’s reaction to —

“What happened to you?” The tone of the question was equal parts concern, outrage and irritation.

Giles pursed his lips in annoyance at the interruption, taking time to put a second butterfly bandage in place before answering. “I woke up a while ago and decided to take a walk.”

“A walk. In the middle of the night. Alone.” Grissom stepped closer and reached for Giles’ face. “Let me see.”

“I’ve been tending my own wounds for quite some time now. You don’t need to —”

“You’re a visitor to my city, and you went out and got mugged. Where the hell did you go?” He held up his hands as Giles started to answer. “No. Never mind. The point is that, yes, I have to take a look.”

Happy for a ready excuse as to the condition of his face, Giles shrugged. “Fine. If you must, you must.”

Nodding his approval of the condition of the wounds, Grissom stepped back then left the bathroom, saying, “I’ll get the police over here so you can make a statement.”

“Police?” Giles dropped the towel he’d been using and hurried after Grissom. “Why bother the police?”

“We have this funny little tradition in Las Vegas that when someone gets mugged —”

“I wasn’t. Not precisely.” Giles spoke quickly. “My attackers ran off as soon as I fought back. I couldn’t possibly identify them.”

“Hair and skin color —”

“Unknown. Really. I didn’t have enough time or light to see any of them properly.” Giles forced himself to relax into a slouch, hoping that Grissom wouldn’t notice just how tense he was over the possibility of police involvement.

Grissom’s hand hovered over the phone for a long moment as he gave Giles a measuring look. “It should be reported.”

“To what end?” Giles took a step toward the other man, keeping his voice low and his tone reasonable. “You know perfectly well how busy the police are in this town. Is it really worth adding to their burden when I have no chance of helping track down the mugger?”

“You know what really pisses me off?”

Giles paused before offering his answer. “Er — visiting Britons who lack the common sense of a two-year-old?”

“Yes!” Grissom shook his head, moving away from the phone to pace back and forth. “Especially when they have a good argument against me following procedure. Fine. I won’t bring them out here. But when we get to the lab, I want you to report it anyway, so they can increase patrols in that section of town.”

“Mr. Grissom —”

“It’s not negotiable.”

Abashed by the genuine anger in Grissom’s voice, Giles bowed his head. “I understand. And I do apologize. To be honest, I thought it would be safer to go out at night here than it is at home.”

The statement stopped him dead in his tracks. “Excuse me? You’re joking, right?”

“You’ve never seen Sunnydale’s crime statistics, have you?”

*****

They’d arrived at the police station at seven in the morning after stopping for donuts, and it had been an eye-opening experience for Giles. After five years in Sunnydale, he’d all but forgotten how police officers were supposed to behave in the face of supposed criminal activity. It hadn’t taken long — a half hour or so — to give his statement, and then they headed to the lab area. Once there, Grissom opened a door and indicated Giles should enter first.

“This will be your home away from home.”

“It will?” Giles looked around, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Not recognizing the mild terror in Giles’ voice, Grissom continued, “Yep. You’ll have guest access to the Internet at some point this morning so you can check your online resources. I got you a digital camera in case you need to send images of the sword to one of your colleagues. When you’re ready for — are you listening?”

Still mesmerized by the gleaming surfaces and shiny electronics, it took Giles a moment to respond with a dazed, “Yes?”

“You okay?”

He blinked a few times before turning to Grissom. “I’m fine,” he said faintly. After clearing his throat, he repeated himself with a touch more assurance. “I’m fine. You were saying?”

Grissom gave him a skeptical look. “If you’re sure —”

“I am.” Giles turned away again, to keep him from realizing just how close he was to running from the technology. It was probably just as well that he still held his duffle, since the books acted as an anchor and kept him standing there.

“Fine. When you’re ready to get an analysis of the composition of the blade and hilt, let me know, and I’ll set it up for you.” Grissom looked around the room once more. “Assuming nothing blows up on one of my cases, I’ll be here for another hour or two before I head home.”

Giles shook himself out of his daze long enough to ask, “You’ll talk to the secretary about a hotel room for me?”

Without pausing on his way out of the office, Grissom said, “On my way right now.”

“And what about the sword?”

“Someone from Evidence is bringing it up for you,” he answered, his voice trailing off as he headed down the corridor.

Giles looked over the equipment bestowed upon him for the job he was to do. The computer and monitor were encased in black plastic, giving rise to a brief and amusing speculation that they were evil in nature. If Willow were here, she could no doubt do a cleansing with the ingredients she always seemed to have on hand.

He frowned at the thought. Willow’s casual use of magic was perhaps a bit too casual these days. He’d been meaning to have a talk with her since her aborted confrontation with Glory, but between one thing and another, it had never seemed to be the right time. And now wasn’t the right time either.

He put his concern about Willow to the back of his mind and examined the other equipment in the room. The camera looked easy enough to use, and since it was similar enough to an SLR he once owned, he wasn’t twitching away from it. Giles refused point blank to contemplate how one might get the pictures out of the camera and onto a piece of photographic paper.

“Rupert Giles?”

He turned to see a young woman pushing a cart that was covered with a sheet. “Are you Rupert Giles?”

“Yes, I am.” Giles looked at the cart. “I take it the sword is under the sheet?”

“You betcha.” She pulled a clipboard out from somewhere and handed it to him. “I need to you to sign for this. You can keep it in here, but you can’t leave it alone unless you lock the door behind you. If you take it with you, you’re responsible for handling it safely and keeping it in its present condition. If you fail to do so, you could be held in contempt of court.” After giving her lackluster speech, she moved the gurney to the long table then transferred the sword to it without lifting the sheet.

Giles took the clipboard, reading through the various warnings and regulations before signing where indicated. “As I don’t have a key, do you have any suggestions for how I might lock and unlock the door?”

She moved past him, pushing the cart in front of her, and snagged the clipboard back from him. At the door, she said without slowing down, “Sure. Get a key.”

“Everyone’s a comedian.” Giles closed the door behind her and went to get his first good look at the artifact. He lifted the sheet carefully and moved it enough to see the blade.

“Bloody, fucking hell!”

*****

“Marjorie! You’re here!” Grissom gave her his best winning smile.

Though she refused to divulge her age to anyone, most of the office pools pegged Marjorie Crandall at being in her mid-sixties. She had iron-gray hair and a face devastated by year-round sunshine and nearly fifty years of smoking. When Grissom spoke to her, she didn’t look up from her monitor.

“No.”

He cocked his head slightly, his eyebrows going up. “‘No?’ As in, ‘No, you’re not here?’”

“‘No’ as in, ‘No, I don’t have time to write up a purchase order.’” She began typing at a rate which tended to frighten most of the younger staff.

“Why not?”

“Have you looked at the calendar, Gil? It’s budget season, and I don’t have time to pee when I need to. Check back in a couple of days.”

“Where’s he supposed to stay in the meantime?”

She didn’t look up from her computer. “Probably the same place he stayed last night.”

*****

“Quentin Travers, please ... Rupert Giles ... Er, yes. Thank you...Yes, it was a terrible thing ... She was very special indeed ... You did? ... I had no idea that was from you. Your thoughtfulness was very much appreciated.” Giles stood in his borrowed office with a borrowed cell phone, wondering when he would emerge from that special hell reserved for survivors who had to listen to expressions of sympathy. “I’m sure the Powers will get it all sorted in the end ... Right ... Yes ... Look, I’m terribly sorry, but if you wouldn’t mind, I need to speak with Quentin ... No, please don’t worry about it ... Yes, I’ll hold.”

He paced, maintaining as much distance as he could from the sword, even as he watched it, half expecting it to jump up and do something. Not ten minutes earlier, the office had seemed too large, a decadent waste of space. Now, it was entirely too small and cramped, especially with that —

“Rupert? I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Is there a problem?”

Giles spared a glare for the opposite side of the room, grinding his teeth at Travers’ tone. “You tell me, Quentin. Does a Babylonian Sword of Destiny constitute a problem or an inconvenience?”

After a long pause, he cleared his throat. “Are you certain that’s what it is?”

“What do you think?” Giles bit back additional responses. Though he would have dearly loved to give his nominal supervisor a piece of his mind, the threat of deportation was still very real, and Travers was enough of a pillock to play that card if he thought it was in everyone’s best interests to drag Giles back to England.

“I see. Have you ascertained its purpose?”

Giles smiled grimly at the hint of nervousness in Travers’ voice. “I’ve only just seen it, so no, I haven’t. And for the record, I’m not touching it, and you can’t make me. I’m too bloody old for that kind of adventure.”

Travers slid into soothing mode. “Of course we wouldn’t expect that of you.”

“You’d better not.” Giles glanced at it and shuddered. “It’s so damn smug.”

After a beat, Travers said, “I’m sorry. What was that again?”

“The sword. It’s smug.”

“The sword is — smug?”

Giles rolled his eyes. “You do recall that these things have a rudimentary consciousness, don’t you?”

“To be honest, I was never all that interested in them,” he admitted. “I was always more concerned with issues directly related to the Slayer.”

“Amazingly, I’m not surprised,” Giles said snidely.

“All right, Rupert, you’ve made your point. The sword is there, it’s not a mundane matter, and you don’t have any interest in going on an adventure. Have I got it all?”

“Not quite.” Giles risked another glance at the sword. “I need to know if Lavery is still tottering about the library.”

“Lavery? Possibly. As I recall, the last time the Council tried to move him to the retirement community, he threatened to curse the lot of us,” Travers said.

“It’s as well they didn’t force the issue. He’s forgotten more curses than you and I will learn in a lifetime.” Giles realized he was closer to the sword than he had been and very deliberately stepped back several feet.

“Hold on a moment — yes, here’s the office list. According to this, he’s still with us. What do you want me to ask him?”

Giles made his voice as neutral as possible. “I’d rather speak with him myself, if you don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t trust me at the moment —” his voice hadn’t been neutral enough “— but it would be better for me to ask. His hearing was quite horrible the last time I spoke with him, and I don’t imagine it’s improved at all.”

“He’s not got a hearing aid?”

“He despises technology even more than you do, so I doubt it,” was Travers’ dry response.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Giles said, “Very well. Check with him on whether or not I can safely handle the sword with latex gloves or any kind of gloves, really. I also need to know whether or not it’s possible to leach the sword of its purpose.”

“I’ll grant that I don’t know much about them, but I seem to recall that they can’t be defused,” Travers said.

“That’s the theory, but Lavery made a study of the things. He might have a few suggestions.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to remove it entirely out of harm’s way?”

Giles shook his head, ignoring the fact that Travers couldn’t see him. “It’s evidence in a case. The police will be upset if it disappears.”

“I’m surprised it hasn’t been triggered yet, with the number of people who must’ve handled it by now,” Travers said, his curiosity piqued by the apparent contradiction.

“The technician who brought it never touched the blade, and I’d be surprised if anyone else had, either.” Giles caught himself approaching the sword again and veered toward the far wall. “I suspect that at a minimum, it’s keyed to magic users, so they wouldn’t be useful to it. I may be able to determine if it has a specific target if I can find out more about where they found it.”

“Interesting. I’ll go hunt down Lavery. What’s the phone number there?”

Giles gave him the cell phone number then hung up. After one last look at the sword, he glanced around the office and came to a decision. He left the room, locking it with a minor spell and wandered off in search of someone who might be able to help him with other concerns.

*****

“Gil!”

Grissom’s stride faltered as he turned to see who called him. “Good morning, Phillip. Are you down here for the Laritz interview?”

Phillip Kane, one of the department’s psychologists, shook his head with a smile. “Actually, I’m down here for the Grissom interview.”

His comment brought Grissom to a halt. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, Gil. You and I have one last session to go before I can give you the all-clear on the Goggle case.” Phillip stopped next to him and added, “Since you keep canceling on me, I thought I would come down here and —”

“Ambush me,” Grissom said, a bit disgruntled.

“Is that how you see it?”

The question was careful, nonjudgmental and more loaded than a con artist’s pair of dice. Grissom ignored it and started walking again, veering toward an open door.

“Is my office good enough, or do we need to find neutral territory?”

“Your office is fine,” Philip said, following him into the office in question. Once inside, he only glanced at the various items preserved in formaldehyde then ignored them and said, “The last time we spoke, you were still having issues with Catherine’s handling of the situation.”

“I’m over it,” Grissom said shortly as he sat at his desk.

Phillip took a seat in one of the guest chairs and gave Grissom an attentive look, choosing not to comment.

“Really. I am. Catherine did what she had to do.”

When Phillip continued to look at him, Grissom snorted. “Fine. I’m not. Happy now?”

“The question isn’t whether I’m happy with it. It’s whether you can be happy with it.” Phillip frowned thoughtfully. “One of your colleagues shot and killed a man who was attacking you. It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know,” Grissom said with the exaggerated patience he normally reserved for the mentally ill. “And I know this, because I’m the one who was rescued. We’ve covered this Phillip. Why are you really here?”

“You came close to losing your job over the Strip Strangler case, Gil. It’s reasonable for you to have doubts about your function in the department. Hell, it’s even reasonable for you to start questioning your life and the direction it’s taking,” he said, relaxing into the chair as he spoke.

His irritation kicking up a notch, Grissom said, “I’m still missing your point.”

Phillip waited a beat before responding. “I heard you have a guest staying with you.”

“It’s not even nine yet — how the hell did you find out so fast?”

“Nuggets of information about you are better than hard currency around here,” he answered with amusement.

“You’ve got to be joking.” When Phillip raised his eyebrows, Grissom shook his head. “Fine. What does my private life have to do with Goggle? For that matter, what’s the big deal about me hosting a visiting expert?”

“You’ve always kept work and home very separate. Yet last night, you opened up your home to a stranger.” Phillip cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you think that’s interesting?”

“I think you’re listening to the rumor mill too much.” He reached for a stack of reports and opened the first folder to read it. Without looking up, he asked, “Are we done here?”

“That depends. Are you going to keep reading that file upside down?”

*****

“Excuse me?”

Marjorie looked up from her work at the soft intrusion. “Yes?”

“Are you Miss Crandall?”

She smiled warmly at him. “Yes, I am. And judging by your accent, I would guess that you’re Dr. Giles.”

He returned her smile with one of his own. “Mr. Giles, actually. I understand that you — er — run things around here?”

Marjorie felt a blush rise from her neck and told herself in no uncertain terms to get over it — whatever “it” was — and help the poor man. “Not quite, though I imagine I can help you with whatever you need —”

“Lovely —”

“— But not, I’m afraid, a hotel room. As I explained to Mr. Grissom earlier, my hands are tied at the moment, so you’ll have to stay with him until the budget is finished.” She managed a look that combined apology with defensiveness.

“Oh. Yes. It’s a very busy time for you, I’m sure,” he said, vaguely confused yet sympathetic.

Marjorie smiled again. “Now, other than getting you a hotel room, what can I do for you?”

His face took on a blank look for a moment before he said, “Actually, Mr. Grissom stocked the office I’m to use with quite a bit of equipment —”

“Nothing but the best,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sure. It’s all very — shiny.” Giles ran his finger under his collar to loosen it a bit.

Marjorie gave him a knowing nod. “You’re old school, aren’t you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Computers and the digital age give you hives?”

Giles sighed in relief that she’d understood. “To be perfectly honest, yes, they do.”

Marjorie picked up the phone. “Judy, could you come over here, please? I need you to help one of our visiting experts get a few things.” When she hung up, she said, “Judy will show you to the notepads, pencils, pens and whatever else you might need.”

“A sketchpad wouldn’t be amiss. Oh! And a magnifier and a strong light source would also be helpful,” he said as he waited for Judy to appear.

*****

Grissom froze then slumped back in his chair. “All right, Phillip. Whatever it is you have to say, just say it.”

“It’s good that you’re letting someone in,” he started. “Even if he’s only visiting, you’re still allowing him into your personal space, and that’s an important step in any developing relationship.”

“You make it sound like I’m dating him,” Grissom answered, annoyed.

Phillip plowed ahead. “He’s only here for a short period of time. He’s safe.”

“But —”

“You can practice your people skills with Dr. Giles. Are you going to take him to dinner again?”

Grissom looked at Phillip, failing utterly to recognize the colleague he’d worked with for so many years. In his place was a Buddha-like Yenta, one who was telling him to — to —”Exactly what are you saying, Phillip?”

“I’m saying live a little. Have fun!”

“Since when did matchmaking get added to your list of responsibilities?”

Phillip tilted his head to the side. “I find it interesting that you seem to think I’m matchmaking.”

“You said —”

Kane raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t you mention last week that you’d read through two of his monographs on antique weaponry?”

Grissom answered with a cautious, “Yes.”

“Because I also find it interesting that you ‘forgot’ to arrange for a hotel room for Dr. Giles.”

“It’s been busy!”

“Oh?”

Grissom despised the knowing look on Phillip’s face. “I had to testify at two separate trials, and then there was discovery in the Franklin murder. On top of that, the Canego case has turned out to be even more complicated than we initially thought.”

“So complicated that you couldn’t send Marjorie an e-mail?”

“No.” Grissom shook his head. “We’re not having this conversation.”

“Gil —”

“Goodbye, Phillip,” he said, standing suddenly and leaving his office. Conversations like that were the reason he tended to focus on the evidence. Even if it was confusing at first, it always made sense in the end, unlike his colleagues.

Or himself.

*****

“What’s this?”

Giles looked up at Grissom. “What’s what?”

He pointed to the notepad under Giles hand then picked up a discarded piece of paper that held a rough sketch of the sword. “This — what is it?”

Narrowing his eyes at the tone he heard, Giles answered slowly and cautiously, as if appeasing a madman. “That is a sketch.” He added helpfully, “Of the sword.”

“I know that,” Grissom answered impatiently. “What I don’t know is why there’s a sketch. What’s wrong with the camera?”

Blinking in confusion, Giles looked over to the item in question. “Nothing, as far as I know. Why do you ask?”

“Because you aren’t using it. I’d like to know why,” Grissom answered, as if the reason should be self-evident.

“Perhaps because I prefer to sketch the details myself.” Giles found himself unexpectedly amused by the other man’s reaction.

Grissom shook his head and put down the sketch. He went over to pick up the camera and brought it back to where Giles sat. He held it out toward him, saying, “Trust me, a camera will pick up a lot more detail.”

Sighing, Giles put down his pencil and took off his glasses for a quick polishing. “Not really.”

“You don’t understand — this is top of the line. You’ll be able to pick up nuances in the metal and enhance them on the computer.” Grissom sounded very much like an evangelist preaching to the masses. A bit like Willow, really.

“Mr. Grissom —”

“Gil.”

“Gil, there’s something that no camera can capture, no matter how good or advanced the technology,” Giles said as he returned his glasses to his face.

Grissom frowned. “The optics are state of the art. What could it possibly miss?”

“My emotional reaction and state of mind as I examine the piece,” he said gently. Giles picked up his sketchbook and motioned for Grissom to come around the table to his side. He flipped the pages back to where he’d made thumbnail sketches of various parts of the hilt.

Pointing to the sketch in the upper left corner, he explained, “When I first examined the leather of the grip, I noticed this stain. I doubt it’s blood. If the sword had seen action in battle, there would have been far more stains scattered around. As I sketched the shape, it suggested to me a smear of some sort.” Giles pulled the arm-mounted magnifying glass toward the hilt and adjusted it over the grip. “Look at the blot. See the fuzziness?”

“Yeah.” Grissom looked at the sketch again. “And I can see the suggestion of it in your drawing.”

“Precisely —”

“But a camera would capture the smear exactly.”

Giles snapped, “To what end?” before taking a deep breath and forcing himself to continue in a more reasonable tone of voice. “The sword is at least ten thousand years old. What possible reason could anyone have to know the exact shape of a smear of fruit juice?”

Grissom gave him a startled look. “Fruit juice?”

“Perhaps.” Giles wanted to kick himself for discussing information he couldn’t possibly know just yet. He didn’t imagine that Grissom would take kindly to his explanation that the sword itself had shared some of its history with him as he sketched.

“But —”

“But nothing,” Giles said firmly. “It’s clearly not blood, and it’s clearly not a weapon that has ever seen battle. The juice stain — or something similar — on the hilt tells me quite a bit about one of the sword’s owners. Knowing the exact shape of the boundary of the stain just complicates things unnecessarily.”

Grissom gave Giles an uncertain look. “So you don’t want to use the camera because it will show too many details?”

“I don’t want to use the camera because I’m afraid I’ll miss things. For instance, I wouldn’t have thought nearly as much about this stain as I did by examining it with my own eyes.” Giles flipped through several more pages of sketches, speaking quietly all the while. “These are my impressions, not the camera’s. These are what I saw on the piece, not what the camera saw. These are what I’ll base my final report on, and frankly, how you can trust something else to look at your evidence for you is beyond me.”

“I don’t let — never mind.” Grissom shook his head and went to the door. “I’m going home.”

Giles looked up at that. “Is there any chance I can see a report on how you came to retrieve the sword?”

Grissom cocked his head. “You think it will help?”

“I’m not sure. This piece is an extremely well preserved antiquity. It should either be in a museum or in a private collection.” Giles really didn’t like how the sword just happened to show up the way it did, but he couldn’t exactly explain his concerns to the other man. Instead, “Most collections, private and public, would have circulated an alarm about the initial theft. Since there was none, I’m curious about the thief.”

“You and me both. The alleged thief, Gerald Canego, is currently awaiting autopsy downstairs. His name ring any bells for you?”

They did, in fact, ring bells for Giles. He recalled that Canego had provided the Watcher’s Council with a number of artifacts over the years, and they’d paid him well for the service. Travers would have said something if the sword had been destined for the Council, so that left the question of who the buyer was. It also left Giles stammering, “He isn’t familiar to me.”

Grissom gave him an odd look before deciding to accept his answer and leave. “If you need anything else, get in touch with Marjorie.”

“I’ll need a key,” Giles said, turning back to the hilt with no small amount of relief.

Without turning around, Grissom asked, “You know about the problem with the hotel room and having to stay with me?”

“Well, yes, Miss Crandall mentioned it earlier. But I was actually referring to a key for this office.”

“Right. The office. You don’t have a problem with staying at my place?”

“Not really.” Giles glanced over at him. “Should I?”

After a moment, he answered, “Not really,” as he left.

As soon as the door closed, Giles pushed his chair as far away from the sword as he could, pulling out his handkerchief to blot his face. Midway through his conversation with Grissom, the sword started murmuring at him again, and he’d had a devil of a time keeping himself from touching it. He checked the time and decided to give Travers another call. Perhaps by now there would be an answer on whether or not there was a way to handle the sword safely.

*****

When Giles ended the phone call, he let loose with a short yelp of surprise. He took a deep breath and said, “I thought you were going home for the day.”

Grissom frowned slightly. “I did go home.”

“You did?”

“About ten hours ago. It’s eight o’clock.” At the blank look he received, Grissom added, “In the evening.”

Giles blinked. “Has it been that long?”

“It has.” Grissom shifted slightly and leaned against the table that held the sword. “Tell me something. Was it my imagination, or did I just overhear the end of a conversation that was held in Latin?”

“It wasn’t your imagination.” Giles put the cell phone on the table and took out his handkerchief. As he pulled off his glasses to polish them, he said, “That was one of my suppliers. She doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak — er — Mandarin.”

“But you both speak Latin.” If anything, Grissom seemed to relax even more against the table. “So that would be a supplier for your store — Magic Box is the name, right?”

Giles shot a quick, suspicious glance at Grissom, but he could see nothing out of the ordinary in the man’s expression. “You’ve been checking up on me.”

“From what I saw on your Web site, you don’t sell to stage magicians, do you?” Although his tone remained even, it was clear to Giles that the other man had slipped into interrogation mode.

Deciding that his best option was telling the truth, Giles relaxed back into his chair, tilting it slightly as he put his glasses back on and looked up. “No. We cater to the magic-using community, from novices on up. Are you interested in setting up an account with us for your lab?”

At that, Grissom blinked. “You’re not serious.”

Giles shrugged one shoulder. “Why not? The City of Sunnydale has an account with me. There’s no reason I can’t extend the same courtesy to Las Vegas.”

Grissom maintained eye contact with Giles for a long moment before his lips quirked into a wry smile. “Fine. The joke’s on me.”

“If you say so,” Giles said, willing his heart rate to slow down following the successful bluff.

“I do.” Grissom paused for a moment then said, “Tell me about Jenny Calendar.”

Giles, who had started to lean forward again, froze. “It would seem you took a closer look at my life than I thought you would.”

“Her case is still open,” Grissom said gently. “But the police haven’t done anything with it since the night you reported finding her body. Why not?”

Giles took slow, shallow breaths. “I really don’t know. Perhaps you should ask them.”

“I did.”

“And?”

Grissom let out a disgusted sigh. “They gave me a song and dance about too little manpower and too many other things to worry about.”

“I see,” said Giles faintly. “There’s your answer, then.”

“I don’t think so.” Grissom gave him a long, considering look. “Tell me about Jenny Calendar.”

“I don’t doubt you’ve already read my statement. I have nothing to add to it,” he said as dismissively as he could manage. “In any event, this is considerably out of your purview, isn’t it?”

Giles pulled himself toward the sword and positioned the magnifying glass over a portion of the blade. The image of Jenny’s smile rose in his mind, hitting him hard and fast, and he struggled to hide, both from the memory and Grissom’s interest in the case. With effort, Giles got himself under control again and opened his sketchpad to a fresh page. A new pencil in hand, Giles started drawing again.

“I’ve read it and the rest of the report, but neither explains why the killer left her in your bed. Or why he staged it so carefully with roses and music and wine.” He jumped slightly when Giles snapped the pencil in half.

His jaw tight, Giles said, “You’ve worked with enough crime scenes, Mr. Grissom —”

“Gil.”

“— I’m sure you can come up with an explanation as to why.” Giles put down the pencil half he still held and picked up another to begin drawing again.

“He wanted to leave you a message. Love always dies.” Grissom reached down and pulled the pencil from Giles’ hand. “And the way he did it was designed to hurt you as much as humanly —” Giles snorted lightly at the word. “— Possible. How am I doing?”

“Perfect marks on all accounts.” Giles swallowed hard and forced his jaw to relax. “May I have my pencil back?”

“You know who killed her.”

For all that Grissom spoke softly, he might as well have shouted the accusation, given how badly Giles reacted. Lightheaded from rage, Giles stood up abruptly. He wanted — god, how he wanted — he wanted to punch Grissom’s face to a bloody pulp. How dare he? How dare —

Giles blinked when Grissom set himself into a wary, defensive stance. It was enough to remind him of where he was, and dear lord, what the hell was happening to him? He’d never been so quick to anger before, and with Jenny buried these three years, there was no excuse for it now. He relaxed his hands and very deliberately sat down again.

“As a matter of fact, I do know who killed her,” Giles said. His admission was a peace offering, nothing more, and he hoped Grissom would respect that and not —

“Then why aren’t you screaming to the rafters for the Sunnydale police to do something?” Grissom kept a watchful eye on Giles. “If they won’t do anything, I’ll contact the California State Police on your behalf.”

Over the years, Giles had told himself repeatedly that the lack of action on the part of the Sunnydale Police Department was a good thing. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized just how much of a wound that uncaring attitude had left. Grissom’s concern was an unexpected balm. He looked up with a calmer, though still unhappy expression. “Arresting her killer won’t bring her back.”

“But —”

“Nor would a trial and conviction serve the course of justice,” he added. Feeling as if he’d aged ten years in the last minute or two, Giles sighed. “The killer is contained, and I know for a fact he suffered greatly for his sins. Truly, Mr. Grissom — Gil — arresting him won’t do anyone any good, and it could well do a certain amount of harm.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“You aren’t the first to make that complaint, and I doubt you’ll be the last.” Giles hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees and bending his head down to rub the bridge of his nose. After a moment, he sat up again but refused to look at Grissom. “If nothing else, the lack of physical evidence identifying the perpetrator should convince you that a trial would be pointless.”

“But you know who did it.” Gil shifted so he could lean down. “You could testify.”

His answering snort was bitter and derisive. “Testify to what? I wasn’t there when he snapped her neck. I saw nothing.”

“There must be something —”

“There isn’t!” Giles winced, and he repeated more softly, “There isn’t. There’s no evidence, nothing to tie her killer to the crime. You have to trust me when I say there’s nothing to be done about this.”

“How can you live with that?”

“One day at a time,” he said, thinking now that he’d been functioning the same way since Buffy’s death. “And by keeping myself busy with useful tasks.”

“Avoidance,” Grissom said with finality.

“It’s my preferred defense mechanism.” Giles sounded stronger than he had a few minutes earlier when he pointed at the sword and said, “That’s a puzzle to be solved, and puzzles keep my mind occupied.”

“You might be able to let it go, but I won’t.”

Without acknowledging Grissom’s comment, Giles continued, “For instance, how did it end up here? Who owned it last? Why did they want it? Were they — What are you doing?”

Gil reached for the hilt of the sword and picked it up. “You’ve —”

Alarmed, Giles put his right hand on Grissom’s arm, the left grabbing unthinkingly to snatch at the hilt. As soon as he touched the blade with side of his bare hand, a flash of bright light bloomed around the two men. When it died down again, they found themselves in what appeared to be a high-end hotel suite.

At the sound of someone applauding from behind, Giles finished snatching the sword from Grissom and brought it around with quick and deadly accuracy. He stopped the blade just a hair’s breadth from the woman’s throat and said, “Who are you, and why have you brought us here?”

She gave him an ingratiating smile with undertones of mockery. “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Dr. Giles.” She held out her hand. “Lilah Morgan, head of special projects for Wolfram and Hart.”

*****

Gil Grissom, scientist and head of the night shift for the Las Vegas Crime Scene Investigation unit, wanted nothing more than for the world to start making sense again. His eyes, ears, nose and feet all told him he wasn’t in the lab any longer, yet he couldn’t believe them, because such a thing was impossible.

Even more unbelievable was the small matter of Rupert Giles holding a sword to an unknown woman’s throat. Bizarre as it was, Gil suddenly felt far more confident dealing with potential assault with a deadly weapon than with the troublesome question of where he was. Speaking carefully, the way he’d been taught in hostage negotiation seminars, he said, “I think we would all feel more comfortable if you put the sword down.”

Giles shot him an annoyed glance, and Gil had to stop to think about that for a moment. Giles was annoyed by his interruption, not threatened. The man was angry, and his anger was clearly directed at the woman — who was apparently unconcerned by the weapon at her throat.

“Look around, Gil. What do you see?”

“You holding a sword at a woman’s throat,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding the question. Judging by the dirty look both Giles and the woman shot at him, his answer didn’t go over very well.

The woman gave Grissom an unpleasant smile. “He’s not very bright, is he?”

“Ms. Morgan, I’m not in a very good mood at the moment.” Giles pressed the sword against her throat. “I’ve had a very bad year, and —”

“Yes, you have.” The mockery had disappeared entirely from her voice and demeanor. “I would like to extend to you Wolfram and Hart’s deepest sympathy on the loss of your Slayer.”

Gil happened to be looking at Giles when the woman, Ms. Morgan, offered her message of sympathy, and it was probably just as well. Because he saw the sudden rage, Gil was able to move quickly enough to pull Giles’ sword arm away from her throat before he could slice into her with it.

She backed out of immediate range. “I take it you don’t believe the sincerity of our condolences?”

“Why would I?” Giles looked down at Gil’s hand and said, “You can let go of me, now. Much though I’d like to take her head off, I won’t.”

“Really?” Grissom’s one-word response conveyed his sense of disbelief.

“You can trust him.” Ms. Morgan looked a bit like the cat that swallowed the canary.

Grissom looked at her curiously. “Do you?”

“Absolutely.” She lifted one elegantly groomed eyebrow and smiled at both men. “Dr. Giles is as pragmatic as any Watcher that ever lived. He won’t kill the only person who can send the two of you home.”

“Watcher?” Gil frowned and did his level best to ignore that particularly surreal comment about going home. “What’s a Watcher?”

Openly amused, she looked at Giles and said, “I think it’s really sweet that you brought a close, ‘personal’ friend with you, but don’t you think that you and the Council are carrying this secrecy thing a little too far?”

Gil frowned at her, wondering how the hell she’d come to the conclusion the two of them were involved. “Mr. Giles and I aren’t lovers. He’s assisting me with an investigation.”

Giles tugged his arm away from Grissom. “Stop trying to evade my earlier question, Ms. Morgan. I want to know why you brought us here, and then you will return us to Las Vegas at once.”

She sighed in a mockery of her earlier sympathy, saying, “No can do, I’m afraid. When you accepted Wolfram and Hart’s invitation, you agreed to give us three weeks of your life.”

“I didn’t receive an invitation from your firm, and I certainly didn’t accept it,” he said, his voice low and tight.

She pointed at the sword. “The invitation was spelled to the blade. As soon as you touched it, you accepted the terms of our offer.”

Gil backed away slightly at the rage that filled Giles’ face. “I touched it by accident. I hadn’t yet been able to pull up the message.”

“Really?” She frowned. “If I’m not mistaken, you looked at it for a good twelve hours beforehand.”

“I was told the thing was mundane,” Giles said, his voice tight with anger. “If I’d known it was mystical, I would have arrived in Las Vegas better prepared.”

“Oh.” She shrugged, unconcerned over the mix-up. “It still doesn’t matter. You’re here for the next three weeks, while I pitch Wolfram and Hart to you.”

“Three weeks?” Appalled, Gil said, “No. I can’t be out of my lab for three weeks.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. She glanced at the bar then sauntered over to it. “Would either of you like a drink? The bar’s been stocked with some of the best single malt around.”

Giles took up the argument again. “He’s right. Neither of us can be away for three weeks.” “You won’t be. You’ll return to Las Vegas just a moment after you left,” she said, pulling out a bottle of whisky.

“That’s impossible,” Gil said flatly.

Without looking up from adding ice to a tumbler, she said, “And you know everything there is to know about the world?”

“He’s a scientist, Ms. Morgan. This sort of thing isn’t within his realm of experience.” Giles took a step toward her. “Send him home. He’s not part of this business.”

“I can’t.” At both men’s disbelieving looks, she added calmly, “No, really. I can’t. You arrived together, you leave together. The agreement was for three weeks, which means you aren’t going anywhere until the time is up.”

For the first time, Gil allowed himself to consider the possibility that he really wasn’t in his lab — or even his world, if the color of the sky out the window was any indication — and he asked, “Where are we? How can you possibly keep us here for three weeks, yet return us to the moment we left?”

“Come to think of it, it might not be the moment you left. Since you tagged along, it might be more like a couple of moments later.” She poured herself a double and took a sip, smiling as the whisky went down. “Our caterers really know their stuff.”

Giles spoke softly and deliberately. “Which dimension are we in?”

“It doesn’t actually have a name. Wolfram and Hart has hundreds of pocket universes at their disposal,” she said casually. “They’re useful for when we need to conduct negotiations without anyone else knowing about them. And, of course, they’re extremely handy for associates who can’t afford the time to take vacation on Earth but still need to take a break.”

“Why are we here?” Giles continued to speak with extreme care, and Grissom realized that the other man’s anger had only deepened since their arrival.

“I don’t know why you brought Pudgy —”

Giles snorted. “You work for the world’s most evil law firm, and the best you can come up with is a schoolyard taunt?”

Ms. Morgan had the grace to look embarrassed. “It’s been a tough year for me too, and as soon as this little exercise with you is over, I’ll be taking a vacation myself.”

“Fine. Everyone is having a bad year,” Giles said, taking another step toward her. “Tell me what reason your firm could possibly have to spirit me away for three weeks.”

She straightened up from her casual pose against the bar and gave Giles a winning smile. “Wolfram and Hart knows that you’ve had a very difficult year. Between the loss of your Slayer and averting your ninth apocalypse —”

“Sixth,” Giles said.

“Ninth, actually. There were a couple back in the eighties that you directly averted, even though you didn’t know about either of them at the time, and there was one in the early nineties.” She cocked her head slightly. “No matter what the count, though, you’ve proven yourself to be more than capable of handling whatever life and the Powers throw at you.”

Giles frowned deeply. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Wolfram and Hart recognizes and appreciates talent, Dr. Giles.” Ms. Morgan put her drink down and walked out from behind the bar. “Over the next three weeks, I’ll be talking with you about the many benefits you would receive by joining our firm.”

*****

Giles stood there with his mouth open. He knew he looked like an idiot, but for some reason, his jaw refused all commands to raise itself. He wondered absently if he would wear this expression of shock permanently, or if, with proper therapy, his face might one day return to normal. Gil started speaking, and he turned to the man, feeling absurdly grateful that one of them could still communicate.

“You set all this up just to offer him a job?” Giles admired the even tone of Gil’s voice. He would have said so, but at the moment, his own voice was unavailable.

The Morgan woman shrugged — she seemed to do that an awful lot — and smiled carelessly. “What can I say? My boss favors a proactive approach when it comes to recruiting talent.” She looked at Giles. “Are you all right?”

Her question broke his stasis, and Giles was finally able to close his mouth again. After taking a moment to compose his thoughts he said, “Of course. I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve been kidnapped by an evil law firm which wishes to recruit me to its ranks. I’ll have to give up my soul, no doubt, but it’s a small price to pay for immeasurable wealth. What could possibly disturb me under these circumstances?”

“I need to remind you that you haven’t actually been kidnapped. You accepted an invitation to use one of Wolfram and Hart’s vacation spots in exchange for listening to a proposal to employ you,” she said, every inch a lawyer.

“Oh yes! Just like those innumerable ‘free vacation’ brochures I receive in the mail,” Giles said in a chipper tone of voice.

“That come-on has been one of Wolfram and Hart’s most successful projects. You wouldn’t believe how much we make on the royalties.”

Giles said faintly, “Royalties?”

“I didn’t get an invitation,” said Gil, dragging the conversation back to the original point. “And right now, you and your company can be charged with kidnapping a law enforcement agent.”

“You’re so cute and innocent,” she said. “I can see why Dr. Giles is attracted to you.”

Gil shook his head. “I told you — we’re not lovers, we’re colleagues.”

Giles could feel a headache coming on, and he suspected it would only get worse if the woman continued to bait Gil. It was time to step in and become the voice of reason, which was just as well, really. If he continued to behave the way he had been, there’d be no telling him apart from Spike.

Touching Gil’s arm, Giles said softly, “She’s just trying to get a rise out of you. Let me speak with her.”

“She kidnapped us.” Gil turned to Giles, his voice getting louder. “That’s not something to ‘talk’ about. It can’t be brushed aside like that.”

“Actually, it can.” Lilah Morgan waited until Giles and Gil were looking at her again. “We’re in a pocket universe where time runs at a much faster rate than on Earth. When you get back, what are you going to do? Report that a law firm abducted you? What proof will you have?”

“I know your name —”

“Then you should also know that at this very moment, there are quite a few witnesses who will be able to state with absolute certainty that I’m attending a community meeting in Los Angeles regarding a new homeless shelter.” She looked at Gil with something approaching pity. “Face it. You won’t have been gone much longer than it takes to blink. You’ll have no way of proving you were anywhere other than where you were.”

Giles muttered, “Bloody lawyers.”

“I heard that,” she said. “Believe it or not, I happen to agree with you. There’s not a single one of us that can be trusted.” She went to the bar and retrieved a thick three-ring binder then walked back to Giles. “We have a quite a bit of ground to cover while you’re here. I can see that you need some time and space to adjust to the idea, so I’ll let you take a look through this today, and we can get started in the morning.”

“My God. You’re serious.” Gil shook his head in astonishment. “You kidnapped the man, and you actually expect him to sit and listen to you?”

“Dr. Giles accepted the invitation. It’s hardly my fault he failed to find out the details first.” After a quick look at both of them, she rolled her eyes. “Look, this isn’t a bad deal. You get three weeks off without having to come back to a desk full of paperwork. The kitchen is stocked with every snack food known to man and demon, and just through those French doors is a beach of pure white sand and a warm ocean to play in. Best of all? No UV radiation, so you don’t have to worry about tell-tale tan lines alerting your friends to your little trip away from reality.”

Much of his composure had been restored during Ms. Morgan’s speech, and Giles asked, “Since you mention reality, what on Earth makes you think this ploy of yours will work?”

She smiled at him. “I have a better question. What makes you think it won’t?”

Giles raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps the fact that Wolfram and Hart is an evil law firm, and I work for the other side? Please tell me at least some of this is ringing a bell for you.”

“You’d be surprised how often we’re on the same side,” she said. “Wolfram and Hart disapproves strongly of any apocalypse it didn’t start, so when it comes to battles of that sort, the firm tends to do what it can to support the Champions in question.”

“Be serious!”

“I’m very serious. An unscheduled apocalypse is bad for business.” She smiled then, with a hint of real amusement. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Dr. Giles, you’ll find that the wardrobe has been stocked with clothing in your size. Mr. —?”

“Grissom. Gil Grissom,” he said with a certain amount of bite in his voice.

“Ah yes. Las Vegas Criminalistics. I should have known.” She pulled a cell phone from her pocket as she moved to a door near the bar. “Mr. Grissom, you’ll have clothing to call your own later on this afternoon. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me —”

Giles cried out, “No!” launching himself after her as she opened the door and stepped through before he could reach her. When he tried to turn the doorknob, it refused to budge, and he muttered a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

“What difference does that door make if we can go outside?”

“Outside doesn’t lead back to Las Vegas.”

Giles saw flat denial rise in Gil’s eyes and bit back the curse that rose to his lips. Browbeating the man into accepting the reality of their situation would do neither of them any good; he would have to find another way to deal with it. In the meantime, Giles decided to behave as if this were a perfectly normal situation. He dropped the binder on the credenza near the door and said, “Right then. Let’s see what’s in the kitchen.”

“The kitchen?”

Giles paused at the tone of the man’s voice. His instinct for self-preservation was speaking rather loudly at the moment, telling him that Gil was closer to the edge of reason than he’d initially thought. He answered cautiously, “Yes. The kitchen.”

“You’re hungry.” Even without the flat voice and closed expression on Gil’s face, Giles knew he didn’t have a hope of escaping into a quick search for spell ingredients without having a small chat first.

Giles sighed. “I’m not, actually. I thought I would see if they’ve left the ingredients I need to read their ‘invitation.’”

“Ingredients?” The muscles along Gil’s jaw rippled as he started to grind his teeth.

Suddenly curious as to how long the other man could last without resorting to a screaming fit, Giles couldn’t resist egging him on just a bit. He told himself the shouting would probably do both of them a world of good, ignoring the small voice that whispered it was just this sort of game that he’d enjoyed playing when he’d gone by the name of Ripper.

He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised that Gil even had to ask, and said, “Yes. For the spell.”

“Spell.”

The word was clipped off, and when Gil didn’t add anything else, Giles chose to misinterpret the response as permission to continue to the kitchen. He nodded once, and with an approving smile, said, “Right. Spell.”

Giles picked a possible direction for the kitchen and set off for it. He gave him five seconds before —

Gil suffered a verbal explosion of moderate volume. “This isn’t a goddamned Disney movie. Why are you talking about a spell?”

Oh well. He’d never been very good at determining someone else’s timing. Giles turned back to him, his face set in a more serious expression.

“You did hear Ms. Morgan mention an invitation, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did, but that doesn’t mean you have to start talking about spells. This is the twenty-first century, not the middle ages. Black cats don’t cause bad luck, lead can’t be turned to gold, and saying an incantation won’t alter reality.”

“Believe it or not, I do know what year it is, and I’m aware that black cats are no more dangerous than any other kind of house cat. That you’re not aware of the process doesn’t mean lead can’t be turned into gold. It can, but at greater cost than the gold is worth.” Giles spoke clearly and with very little emotion. He didn’t want Gil to think he was upset, but he needed to get his message across. Drawing breath, Giles continued before Gil could respond. “And words can, in fact, alter reality, particularly if they’re spoken by someone with at least a modicum of talent.”

“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of this.” Gil started to pace around the room. “None of this makes sense, and you’re only making it worse.”

“I can see that it upsets you. However, if I’m to ascertain the truth of Lilah’s statements, you’re going to have to put up with talk of magic and spells.” Giles put the sword next to the binder on the credenza before approaching Gil slowly. It was earlier than he wanted, but the present moment seemed to be a reasonably good time to peel away a layer of Gil’s denial. “I asked you earlier to look around and tell me what you saw. You never answered the question. I’d like you to do so now.”

Gil gave him a startled look and visibly calmed down as the request for factual information settled in. Taking a deep breath, Gil slowly turned all the way around. “I see a living room with a wet bar. Expensive furniture and even more expensive interior design. A lot of thought went into making this a comfortable, relaxing space.”

Giles spoke gently. “I concur. Now turn around and look through the French doors. Tell me what you see outside.”

“An ocean, a beach. Lots of vegetation. A pur —”

“Say it,” he encouraged.

“No.”

Genuinely curious, Giles went to Gil’s side and asked, “Why not?”

“It could be a trick of light. Colored glass.” Gil turned to Giles. “It’s a trick of the glass, right?”

“Let’s open the doors and find out,” he said, moving toward them and skirting around the coffee table.

“Let’s —” Gil paused. “The sky is really purple, isn’t it?”

Giles opened one of the doors, pausing to inhale the rich scent coming from the lanai. There was a hint of citrus with a tang of salt and — cinnamon? Nutmeg? He wasn’t sure of the third scent, but the combination reminded him of Christmas, when he and his parents would stay with his grandparents in Bristol.

Tamping down a sudden longing for the days when an orange in his stocking and the scent of his grandmother’s cooking was all it took to make him happy, Giles confirmed, “It’s purple. Looks like there’s a full moon as well.”

“There was a crescent moon last night,” said Gil, somewhat desperately objecting to Giles’ observation.

“And if I’m not mistaken, there was also one moon over Las Vegas last night, not three.”

Though Gil dragged his feet, he still found himself standing next to Giles all too soon. He stood on the threshold, looking up at the purple sky with its red sun and three pale moons. “Christ.”

Giles leaned against the door frame as he looked at his companion. Despite his earlier outbursts, Gil was starting to handle the situation far better than he could have done, especially given his scientific background. Under similar circumstances, Giles wasn’t convinced he would do nearly as well.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this nonsense,” he offered quietly.

“Did you know it was going to happen?” Gil frowned. Giles followed his gaze and caught sight of an insect with far too many sets of wings buzzing around an improbably-colored flower. Gil appeared to be entranced by it, so perhaps the stay wouldn’t be a complete waste for him.

Uncomfortable with his scrutiny of Gil’s face, Giles took off his glasses and pulled out his handkerchief to polish them. “As soon as I saw the sword, I could tell there was a problem. I knew something would happen if I touched it.”

A hint of anger returned to Gil’s voice. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Looking down as he cleaned his glasses, Giles said, “I didn’t go to Las Vegas prepared to deal with a mystical object. My employers told me the sword was merely an antiquity.” Finished with his glasses, he returned them to his face and looked at Gil. “Remember the conversation you heard me have in the lab?” At the other man’s nod, he said, “My supplier was assuring me that I would very shortly have in hand what I needed to determine the nature of the sword’s spell.”

“I don’t understand.” Gil frowned. “For that matter, I don’t understand anything about the last half hour. What’s a Watcher? And a Slayer? And magic? My God — you really meant it when you said your store caters to magic users, didn’t you? How did we get here? They drugged us, didn’t they? This is all a massive hallucination, isn’t it? Who are you? How did you get me here? Why —”

Though irritated by Gil’s incipient hysteria, Giles bit back his immediate response and thought about the problem at hand. After a moment’s consideration, he broke into Gil’s tirade. “I can either slap you —” Giles paused significantly before saying, “or I can do something equally shocking to bring you back to coherency. I’ll leave it up to you.”

The comment worked as well as a slap — Gil shut up with an audible click of his teeth coming together. “What’s the nonslapping option?”

Giles raised his eyebrows. “Does it really matter?”

Gil shook his head. When he spoke again, it was with studied calm. “Why did she keep implying that we’re lovers?”

Feeling the same impulse to tweak him that he’d had earlier, Giles said in vaguely apologetic voice, “You’re not entirely unattractive, you know.”

He opened his mouth to reply, briefly hesitating before saying, “She was winding me up. And so are you.”

“I am?”

Gil took in the studied innocence of Giles’ expression. “You are. You’re trying to keep me from going nuts right now.”

“Is it working?”

“Sort of.” Grissom sighed. “Magic is real?”

“It’s very real,” Giles said gently, dropping the subject of attraction. He needed the man to focus on the problem at hand, not to worry about whether he would have to fend off unwelcome advances.

“And you think you’ll find what you need in the kitchen?”

Giles nodded. “Sage and sea salt at the very least, with perhaps a few other items as well.”

Gil cocked his head. “Is that all you’ll need?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “I suspect it may be too much to hope for an actual — er — lab with everything I need, but it might be worth taking a look around.”

Gil nodded. “Okay.” He gestured toward the door Lilah used earlier. “What do you think is behind there?”

Giles glanced at it briefly. “Most likely it’s the transit point she’s using to move from our reality to this one.”

“Oh.” After a pause, Gil said with vague enthusiasm, “So you’ll take a look in the kitchen, while I look around the rest of the place?”

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea,” Giles said, pushing himself away from the door frame to head back to where he thought the kitchen might be.

“Mr. Giles?”

He stopped and looked back at Gil. “Just Giles. Or Rupert, if you prefer.”

“Rupert — when she mentioned the kitchen was stocked with every food known to man and demon —?”

“It’s unlikely you’ll see any demons here.” Continuing the way he’d been heading, Rupert added casually, “Unless they’re functioning as servants, of course.”

*****

Finally alone, Gil started to find his center again. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so rattled by anything, and he wasn’t in the slightest bit pleased to have had an audience for his minor meltdown. His only comfort was that Rupert Giles seemed to keep himself as closed off from others as he did, so perhaps there wouldn’t be an attempt to “talk it out” in order to make him feel better about the whole thing.

There were two hallways leading out of the room; since Rupert had chosen one, Gil chose the other. Midway down, along the left wall — the direction he mentally dubbed ocean side — he found a closed door.

Gil turned the knob slowly and cracked open the door with a great deal of caution. Not for the first time that day, he rued his habit of keeping his gun in his desk while at the office. When nothing jumped out at him, he opened the door further, carefully poking his head in the room to see what was there.

Stunned by the sight before him, Gil lost all sense of caution and opened the door wide as he entered the library. It was huge. There was an upper level, complete with an spiral iron staircase reminiscent of the one in The Music Man. He wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to see Shirley Jones and Robert Preston singing “Marion” — and he stopped that train of thought almost as quickly as it got started.

“Don’t go there, Gil,” he muttered. “Avoidance is his thing, not yours. If you stop thinking about musicals and just work the evidence, you’ll be fine.”

The evidence, such as it was, nearly overwhelmed him. At a glance, he could tell that most of the volumes were old and no doubt extremely valuable. Display cases littered the floor, and curious, he walked toward one. Before he reached it, he heard, “Dear lord!”

Gil turned to find Rupert standing in the doorway, gaping at the room. “I thought you were looking for ingredients in the kitchen.”

“There aren’t any,” he answered faintly, his eyes glazing over a bit. “Found this instead.” He held out his hand, and as Rupert walked past him and toward a display case, Gil snagged the brochure.

“‘Welcome to Wolfram and Hart’s Sanctuary for Scholars.’” Gil shook his head, bemused by the cover of the brightly colored piece. “They’re joking, right?”

“Good heavens!”

Gil looked up to see Rupert hovering over the nearest display case. He went up to him and saw three clay tablets with familiar markings. “Are those —?”

“Sumerian,” Rupert breathed. And then he whimpered a bit. “Oh my.”

Glancing down at the cuneiform, Gil asked, “You can actually read Sumerian?”

“Of course.” Giles lips were moving, apparently translating on the fly. “Dear lord. It really is the Ashkerian Prophecy.”

Cocking his head for a better look, despite his complete inability to read the language, Gil asked, “The what prophecy?”

“Ashkerian.” His hand shaking slightly, Rupert pointed at the tablets. “The Ashkerian Prophecy was the first ever to be recorded in written language.”

“A prophecy.” Gil frowned then decided to set aside for the moment the troublesome connotations not only of the word “prophecy” but also of Rupert’s reaction to it. “Do you think the tablets are genuine?”

“Without question.” If not for the display case, Gil was fairly certain Rupert would be running his hands along the surface of the clay tablets.

“Shouldn’t these be in a museum?”

“Absolutely not.”

Gil blinked. “Why not?”

“Hm?”

Hearing such a familiar, absent-minded noise come from Rupert, Gil suddenly understood why he irritated his coworkers so much at times. He made a mental note for the future to at least look up from his microscope when someone was talking to him. “Why shouldn’t these be in a museum?”

Rupert glanced up from the display, apparently puzzled by the question. “These tablets contain Sumerian prophecy. A museum could never hope to protect either the tablets or their message.”

“Security —”

“Means nothing to those who can create and maintain a pocket universe, let alone a multitude of such things,” Rupert said firmly. “Look around you, Gil. For all intents and purposes, we are the only ones here. Wolfram and Hart controls who comes in and who leaves, so these tablets can never be stolen.”

“I thought you said it was an evil law firm. Why would you want them to have these?”

With a look of frustration, Rupert said, “Wolfram and Hart is evil, and frankly, I’d rather the Council have possession of them. However, the Council can’t provide nearly as much protection as Wolfram and Hart, so —” He broke off, shrugging with a helpless air.

And then Rupert was promptly distracted by the other contents of the library. He was halfway across the room before Gil realized it and followed. “Wait a minute. What council?”

“Of Watchers,” he said with the same abstracted air he’d had earlier. “Look! It’s Morley’s Guide to the Taxonomy of the Lower Beings!” Rupert stopped at the shelf and pulled the book out with a great deal of care. “My god. It’s in excellent condition.”

“You never answered my question. What are Watchers?” Gil would have tugged the book out of Rupert’s hand if not for the vicious look the other man gave him just then. He backed up a step and held both hands up and close to his shoulders. “I get the message. I won’t touch your precious.”

Rupert inhaled sharply then returned the book to the shelf with as much care as possible. “I’m sorry. I reacted badly just now.”

“You’re a junkie,” Gil said in amused disbelief.

“What? I am not!”

“Books are your methamphetamine!”

“They are not!”

Gil reached out and grasped Rupert’s chin to bring his face in closer. Peering closely, Gil said, “Your eyes are dilated, and your skin is flushed. You’ve just broken into a light sweat.”

Clearly annoyed, Rupert twisted his head away from Gil’s hand. “Oh, please!”

What had started out as a joke was suddenly no laughing matter. Gil spoke clearly and carefully. “You shouldn’t be in here. You don’t seem to be able to think clearly when you’re around all these books.”

The denial was plain on his face, right up until he said, “I fear you may be correct.” He turned around in a full circle. “However, the room I need can only be accessed through the library.”

“What room? Are you sure you need to go there?”

Rupert took out his handkerchief and blotted the sweat off his brow before answering, “According to the brochure, it will have everything I need to cast a spell to trigger the invitation on the sword.”

Gil was proud of himself for not twitching at the mention of a spell. He nodded as if Rupert made perfect sense then asked, “Can’t you take what you need out of the room and put it into the kitchen?”

“I’d rather not,” he said, walking slowly toward a door in the corner opposite the library’s main entrance as he continued to crane his neck to see what other treasures the room held. “The spell room is warded against accidents.”

“Accidents?”

At the door, Rupert turned to Gil. “The sword is still on the credenza. Would you go get it, whilst I prepare?”

Gil stood in the library for a full minute before leaving to get it. If he’d gone any earlier, he would have been tempted to use the blade on Rupert, particularly since the man had once again ignored him.

*****

Rupert glanced up when Gil returned with the sword. “If you would, please put it over there,” he said, indicating a side counter with a nod of his head as he continued measuring out ingredients.

“No.”

Surprised, he gave Gil a longer look. “I beg your pardon?”

“‘No’ is a fairly straightforward word,” Gil said, holding the sword up in an en garde position before allowing the tip to drop down again. “How did you manage to hold this thing at her throat so easily?”

“Years of practice. What did you mean by no?” Rupert frowned slightly, trying to understand why the other man had suddenly decided to stop cooperating.

“Years? Do you often hold a sword to someone’s throat?” Gil lifted his eyebrows.

Declining to answer, Rupert focused on the sword. “Have you taken a dislike to the countertop in question, or is it simply that you’ve grown fond of the sword?”

“Neither,” Gil said pleasantly. “You’ll get it back when I get some answers.”

Hesitating slightly — Rupert refused to admit that he was playing for time — he finally asked, “Answers?”

“Yes. To my questions.” Gil held the sword up once more, grimacing at the weight of it before allowing it to drop again.

“Questions.”

Gil gave him a direct look. “I’m fairly certain there isn’t an echo in here. What’s a Watcher?” Before Rupert could do more than open his mouth, Gil added, “And I don’t want you to tell me a Watcher watches.”

Rolling his eyes at the injunction, Rupert leaned hipshot against the counter, his arms folded across his chest. “Then answering your question will prove to be somewhat impossible.”

After a long moment, Gil narrowed his eyes. “Fine. A Watcher watches. What does he watch?”

“The Slayer,” Rupert said in a clipped tone. When Gil didn’t rise to the bait, Rupert sighed. “What do you know about demons?”

“You mean like Beelzebub?” Rupert gave the man points for not rejecting the question out of hand.

“Not necessarily just the demons found in Christianity, but other sorts as well.”

At that, Gil raised an eyebrow. “You mean in other religions?”

“Generally speaking, no.” Rupert allowed the other man a moment to absorb that statement before he continued. “The world did not begin as a paradise —”

“I remember my geology lessons,” Gil said impatiently.

“Nor did it begin quite the way science would have it,” he said with mildly exaggerated patience. “For untold eons, demons walked the earth.”

“Demons. Like Beelzebub.”

“No. Not like Beelzebub.” Rupert took a step toward the door then hesitated as he caught sight of the library. He stepped back with a small shake of his head. “Do you remember the book I pulled off the shelf earlier?”

With a distrustful look, Gil said, “Yes. What about it?”

“This is much easier to explain with visual references. The Morley compendium has a fair number of illustrations that will help.” When Gil made no move, Rupert snapped, “Do you really want to have to drag me out of there again?”

“Fine.” Still holding the sword, Gil went back into the library, leaving Rupert alone and muttering under his breath.

*****

“Put simply, if you assume that most demons are evil, you won’t be far off.”

Gil rubbed his eyes. An hour after demanding answers, he had a great many of them. Too bad none of them made sense. He took a deep breath and nodded at the statement, thinking that if nothing else, at least that concept meshed with his Catholic upbringing.

“While in your world, police officers deal with human evil — criminals — while in my world, the Slayer deals with demonic evil,” Rupert said, sounding very much like one of Gil’s professors.

Gil cocked his head, and with a certain amount of whimsy, he asked, “Demonic criminals?”

“That description is often more apt than you might think,” Rupert said wryly.

“What does the Slayer do? Arrest the demons and send them to jail?”

Pointing to a drawing of a Polgara demon, Rupert said, “Do you honestly believe something whose main purpose in life is to kill humans has any chance of redemption?”

“You’re saying that all demons are like that? That none of them can be rehabilitated?” Gil frowned. “How do you know there isn’t a sweet little old lady Polgara demon living on the outskirts of Reno?”

“I don’t,” he acknowledged. “Generally speaking, though, if a demon is attacking humans, it’s regarded as dangerous and should be killed with all due haste.”

Gil looked at Rupert over the top of his glasses. “But not due process.”

“Due process is a lovely concept when you’re dealing with humans — or at least ordinary humans in human society. No matter where you go in the world, the humans you find have a generally agreed-upon sense of right and wrong. Killing someone is evil. Protecting a child is good.” At Gil’s nod of understanding, Rupert continued, “Demons are not of human society. They have their own social mores, and generally speaking, their rules are as incomprehensible to us as ours are to them.”

“So because they’re different, they get killed automatically?”

“Don’t generalize. You’re brighter than that,” Giles snapped.

Gil looked abashed. “You’re right. I apologize.”

Appeased, Giles continued, “Not all demons are evil. A number of demonic species have managed to integrate well into human society and are productive in their own way. When it comes to the evil, human-killing demons — the ones that absolutely must be killed — the Slayer is the judge, jury and executioner.”

“Just one person? Who decides who it will be? What gives them the right to declare some guy ‘The Slayer?’”

“The Slayer is always a girl, and she’s given that right by the Powers That Be.” Giles added softly, “She alone is chosen among her generation to fight the forces of evil.”

“That sounds like something in a comic book.”

Rupert shrugged as he examined his shoes. “I didn’t write the speech. I merely gave it the first time I met Buffy.”

Gil heard the grief in Rupert’s voice, and he asked carefully, “Buffy?”

“My Slayer.”

“That woman offered condolences on the loss of your Slayer.” When Rupert nodded, Gil asked, “Is she the one you lost in February?”

“No. That was Joyce, Buffy’s mother,” Rupert said, his lips tightening. “She died of complications following surgery for the removal of a brain tumor.”

“So Buffy was the one you lost a month ago?”

“Six weeks and five days ago,” Rupert said tightly. He straightened up and turned back to the cauldron on the counter.

“How did she die?”

“If you’ll put the sword down over here, I can begin working on the spell.” Rupert opened a bottle of dried beetle wings and picked up a pair of tweezers. He began to carefully pull out wings, one by one.

“Rupert?” Gil stepped forward.

“Just a few more things, and then I can make my circle and ver —” Rupert voice broke. He swallowed hard and continued, his gaze concentrated on the cauldron before him. “And I can verify what Ms. Morgan said.”

He stepped close enough to reach out and touch Rupert’s shoulder, and after a moment of hesitation, Gil did just that. “How did she die?”

“I’m really not up to this round of twenty questions,” Rupert said, giving Gil a pleading look. “Can’t you just let me do the spell?”

Gil put the sword on the counter. When Rupert reached for it, he stopped him and said gently, “You can’t avoid the grief forever, you know. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up to you.”

Rupert shook his head. “I haven’t — I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

Pursing his lips, Rupert looked away.

“Can’t what, Rupert?” The question was no less insistent, for all that Gil asked gently.

His voice clipped, Rupert said, “I can’t seem to cry for her. I’ve tried, but —” He looked directly at Gil. “I worked with her for five years, guided her, taught her, learned from her, loved her — yet still, I can’t seem to grieve for her.”

“I’m sorry,” Gil said. “I don’t have any answers for you other than the standard ones — everyone handles the death of a loved one in their own way. Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

“Right. Talking about it.” A bitter laugh escaped Rupert’s rigid control. “My choice of confessors is limited to a group of teenagers who have a hard time telling me when they’re worried about me, or my colleagues, who view the death of a Slayer as business as usual.”

“I make a lousy confessor, but you can add a skeptical CSI to the list.” His hand still on Rupert’s back, Gil steered him toward the door. “Let’s see just how good the scotch is, okay?”

*****

Back in the room where they’d initially arrived, Gil stood behind the bar while Rupert stood in front of it. Gil tilted the bottle of Glenfiddich toward Rupert. “Another?”

Shaking his head, he put his hand over the glass. “No. One is more than enough.”

“Are you sure? I don’t usually prescribe a stiff drink — especially after someone’s already had one — but you look like you could use another.”

Rupert quirked his lips into a half-smile. “I’m certain, particularly given our location.”

Frowning, Gil said, “Isn’t this place safe?”

“We’re in the clutches of an evil law firm, and the operative word here is ‘evil.’” Rupert gave a last look of regret at the scotch bottle Gil held. “Leaving ourselves open by indulging in alcohol isn’t a good idea.”

“Damn.” He put the scotch back behind the bar then looked at Rupert for a long moment. “I meant what I said. I’ll listen to whatever you need to say.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Then what do you doubt?”

Caught, Rupert looked mildly embarrassed. “To be frank, I doubt your credulity.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything, in fact.” After noting Gil’s irritation, Rupert relented. “Look, when you get to the point where you can accept my reality as valid, I’ll talk to you.”

“I — I can —” Gil’s frustration was evident.

“You can’t even lie convincingly about it.” When Gil started to object, Rupert raised his hand. “I know you seem to recognize that we’re no longer in your lab, but you’ve yet to be convinced this is nothing more than an hallucination. Am I correct?”

“I —” Gil sighed. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Give yourself a chance to acclimate. If you would still prefer to believe this is simply an elaborate hoax, I’ll —”

“Excuse me?”

Gil’s mouth dropped open as he saw who — what — who interrupted.

Rupert turned. “Yes? What is it?”

The thing smiled. “Which one of you is Mr. Giles?”

“I am. What can I do for you?” Gil stared at Rupert, as much for his courteous tone as for his apparent acceptance of — that.

“My name’s Clem, and I’ll be your servant while you’re here,” it — he said, his floppy ears bobbing gently in time to his self-introduction.

“Oh? Tell me, Clem, have you worked for Wolfram and Hart for very long?” Rupert leaned against the bar, his lack of fear doing more to settle Gil’s nerves than anything else he could have done.

“Me? Work for Wolfram and Hart?” Clem laughed. “They wouldn’t hire someone like me in a million years. The worst I’ve ever done is cheat at kitten poker once or twice.”

Gil couldn’t stop himself. “Kitten poker?”

Rupert glanced back at him. “You don’t want to know. Trust me on this.”

Unconcerned by or unaware of the interruption, Clem continued, “No, good old W and H contracted me through Demonpower.”

Again, Gil couldn’t stop himself. “Demonpower?”

“Demonic branch of Manpower,” Rupert said absently. To Clem, he said, “Will you be with us the whole time?”

“No way! You two will only see me when you call for me or when I bring your meals,” Clem said happily. “Don’t worry about me getting in the way or anything. I promise there’s not a chance I’ll walk in on anything you two might be doing.” He followed his last statement with a broad wink, leaving neither man in doubt as to what Clem thought he might walk in on.

Rupert murmured, “Ms. Morgan strikes again.”

When it was clear that Rupert wasn’t going to attempt to correct the misunderstanding, Gil said, “We’re not —”

“Don’t worry about me! Discretion is my middle name!” After a pause, he said, “Actually, my middle name is Leslie, but don’t tell anyone, okay? The guys would just tease me about it.”

“I promise,” said Rupert in a choked tone. One glance at his face told Gil that he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Any-hoo, I’m not here to talk about my problems. I just wanted to let you fellas know that lunch is ready, and when you’re done eating, I’ll take you on a tour of this place. It’s really great here!”

*****

Rupert moved his salad around the bowl, hoping Gil wouldn’t notice that none of it was actually making it into his mouth.

“Hey, Mr. Giles! Still not eating, huh?” Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on Clem’s powers of observation.

Ignoring Gil’s sharp look, Rupert stammered, “I’m not very hungry at the moment.”

“Spike told me you haven’t been eating much since — well — since That Day,” Clem said, setting a piece of shepherd’s pie before him.

Surprised, Rupert said, “You know Spike?”

“Sure I do! We play poker every Tuesday night. It took him a while to get in good with the guys, because of the whole demon-killing kick he’s been on since he got chipped, but he loses a lot, so they don’t mind too much.” Clem put another plate on the table. “If salad isn’t enough to tempt your tummy, here’s some mushy peas.”

“Mushy peas and shepherd’s pie.” Rupert’s voice was faint as he looked at the meal before him. “Wolfram and Hart has certainly done its homework, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t know about that, but the food sure looks good.” Clem put the final offering down — two pints of what was most assuredly good English beer — and said, “I’ll leave you two to finish up, and then I’ll be back with dessert. Hope you like spotted dick!”

Gil, who was in the process of tasting the beer, spit it out at Clem’s final comment. “Was that deliberate?”

“The timing? No,” Rupert said, his lips twitching with a smile. “The dessert? Without question.”

“Why?”

Taking in the bewildered expression on Gil’s face, Rupert said gently, “You shouldn’t have attempted to explain that we’re not lovers. Ms. Morgan is taking every opportunity she can to make you uncomfortable about it.”

Gil stared at him in disbelief. “What did I ever do to her?”

“You, ah, you arrived with me.” Before Gil could respond, Rupert added, “It might well have thrown her plans into disarray, having someone here who can possibly counter whatever it is that Wolfram and Hart has to say to me.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Consider the library,” Rupert said with a direct look.

“Oh. Do you think there’s a spell on it?” After a brief pause, Gil said, “I can’t believe I just asked that.”

“I doubt very much that a spell is involved.” Rupert took a deep breath. “There really doesn’t have to be. They have enough rare volumes and documents in that room to keep me satisfied for a lifetime. I wouldn’t have left off if you hadn’t prodded me along.”

“They’re enabling your addiction,” Gil said thoughtfully.

Aggrieved, Rupert snapped, “I do wish you would stop comparing me to a junkie.”

“If the shoe fits —” Gil caught sight of Rupert’s face and placated him with, “Fine, I’ll stop calling you a junkie. But only if you eat.”

“What?”

“Eat,” Gil said, pointing at Rupert’s plate. “As far as I can tell, you haven’t had anything since that jelly donut this morning.”

Mildly offended by the man’s presumption, Rupert asked, “What makes you think I didn’t have lunch?”

“The fact that you were surprised to see me when I showed up in the lab tonight.” Gil scowled. “You’re just moving the food around on your plate, pretending to do something with it.”

“This is absurd.” Rupert stabbed at the shepherd’s pie, but he didn’t raise the fork to his lips.

“Absurd or not, I can’t have you passing out from starvation. Eat.”

Rupert put a small amount of food on his fork and shoved it into his mouth, wincing slightly when the tines hit his gums. After he chewed and swallowed, he said, “Satisfied?”

“Not nearly.” Gil shook his head. “You’re acting like a child right now.”

“I’m not hungry, and you’re forcing me to put food in my mouth. And what’s more —” Rupert stopped and took stock of the situation. Swallowing hard, he continued, “What’s more, you’re right. I’m acting like a child. I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize. Eat.” When Rupert made no move to do so, Gil pursed his lips. “Would Buffy want you to starve yourself?”

His eyes narrowed, Rupert bit out, “That was low.”

“I fight dirty when I have to,” Gil said with self-satisfaction. “Now eat.”

*****

After lunch, they sat outside and enjoyed the balmy weather. The ostensible purpose was to chat and get to know one another a bit better. As far as Rupert was concerned, though, the real reason was to allow Gil to become more comfortable with the concept of magic before it was actually performed in front of him. To that end, he invited Gil to ask what he would and promised to answer as fully as possible.

Three hours into the interrogation, he deeply regretted the impulse.

“So, Anya used to be a vengeance demon?” At Rupert’s tired nod, Gil continued, “From what you described, Anya was the kind of demon Buffy should have killed.”

“If she’d still been a demon when Buffy met her, I would have encouraged her to do so.”

“But since she isn’t anymore, she gets a free pass?”

Rupert was about to agree but stopped as he considered the question. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Even though she’s human, no human court can convict her, and the Slayer can’t touch her either.” Gil raised his eyebrows as he glanced over at Rupert. “Sounds like a pass to me.”

“You’re correct in that she isn’t subject to trial by jury or the blade,” Rupert allowed. “But you’re forgetting that now that Anya is human, she’s very much mortal again, and her soul will be subject to the same posthumous judgment as the rest of us. I doubt she’ll get off lightly when she dies. She has too much to answer for.”

Gil stared at him for a long moment. “You’re an odd man, Rupert Giles.”

“I am? How so?”

“You haven’t said so, but I get the feeling you’ve rejected much of Christian dogma.” At Rupert’s noncommittal grunt, he added, “On the other hand, you talk about Anya’s soul being judged after she dies.”

Confused by where Gil was going, Rupert said, “I don’t get your point.”

“Aside from your Christian-like notion of judging the immortal soul, I’m kind of surprised you even believe the human soul exists.”

Rupert nodded slowly. “I can see where that might confuse you.”

“And?”

“And what? The human soul exists, Gil. Never doubt that for a moment. It’s what separates us from the demons.” Before Gil could persist, Rupert decided he’d had enough. “I think it’s time to run the spell on the sword.”

Gil looked slightly panicked. “But I have more questions.”

“They can wait until later.” Rupert stood up and stretched. “Let’s go in. I want this done before Clem returns with dinner.”

*****

Closing the circle, Rupert motioned to Gil to back up slightly. He dropped a lit match into the cauldron at his feet then picked up the sword by the hilt and held it straight out in front of him, allowing the smoke from the burning herbs and beetle wings to curve around the blade. After a moment, he started the incantation.

As Rupert spoke, Gil did a rough translation of the Latin. He was amused to realize that the grandiose-sounding poetry boiled down to, “I’m bigger and meaner than anyone else, so tell me what you know.”

His amusement faded into sickly surprise when the sword started glowing with an intense, bluish light. A beam shot out from the tip of the sword, and it coalesced into the image of a woman.

“Dr. Giles, my name is Lilah Morgan, and I would like to invite you to a three-week retreat as Wolfram and Hart’s guest,” she said, sounding as smug as she had in person. After five minutes of explanation and legal disclaimers, she closed with, “To accept this offer, touch the blade of the sword with your bare hand. I hope to see you soon.”

After a moment of silence, Rupert waved his hand over the cauldron and muttered, “Be done,” before swiping his foot through the circle to break it. He caught sight of Gil’s face and asked, “Are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

“That was —”

When he didn’t continue, Rupert said, “Magic, yes.”

His eyes darted to the counter. “Maybe there’s a projector in the sword.”

Rupert frowned. “Has technology reached that level?”

Gil started slightly at Rupert’s genuine curiosity and shook his head slowly. “No. Not that I know of.”

“Is there any possibility that you’re closer to accepting magic — true magic — as a reality?”

“Maybe. A little bit, anyway.” Gil moved to stand next to Rupert. He held his hand over the sword, but he didn’t touch it. “What I’d really like to know is the physics behind it. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of that.”

“Given what I saw of the library earlier, there’s likely to be a copy of Newton’s Treatise on Magic and Science on the shelves,” Rupert said as he carefully dumped the burnt contents of the cauldron into the sink.

“Newton who?” Gil very carefully touched the hilt.

“Sir Isaac. Would you check the closet next to you for a broom?”

Gil stared at him. “I’ve never heard of Newton writing anything like that.”

“I’d be surprised if you had,” Rupert said, looking into another cupboard. “Ah! I found one.” He pulled out a broom and dust pan and started to sweep up the salt. “When the Church heard about the manuscript, the Pope ordered his priests to track down and burn every copy.”

“Because it concerned evil?”

Rupert gave a short, sharp laugh. “Evil wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that Sir Isaac had written a how-to manual for anyone who wished to learn magic.”

Gil considered that for a moment. “They didn’t want to lose their monopoly on signs and wonders.” At Rupert’s murmur of agreement, he asked, “If the Church destroyed all the copies, how do you know about it?”

“I didn’t say the Church destroyed them all.”

Gil nodded as he said, “Right. Only that the priests were ordered to. Does this Council you belong to have a copy of it?”

“The original document is in the vault.” Rupert dumped the salt into a wastebasket and gave Gil a quick grin. “The Watchers’ Council commissioned Sir Isaac to write it.”

The door opened just then, startling both men. Looking vaguely uncomfortable in the dark suit he now wore, Clem smiled, giving them a small wave. “Hey, guys! I’m back with clothes for Mr. Grissom, and I have dinner on the table for you.”

*****

Gil tasted the brandy and shook his head. “If I’m not careful, I could get very used to this.”

“The food and drink are excellent.” Rupert held his glass to the light, admiring the amber liquid.

“You still need to eat more,” Gil said, a faint scowl on his face.

Rupert rolled his eyes. “Yes, mother.”

Clem came in and cleared away the last of the plates. “I really want to thank the two of you for waiting for the tour. I had no idea I was going to have to leave right after you ate lunch. As soon as you’re done with your brandy, give me a holler, and we’ll get started, okay?” When Rupert nodded, Clem ducked out of the room.

“Tell me again why we didn’t go exploring on our own after lunch.” Gil fondled the cigar Clem had served with the wine. Based on the ostentatious displays of wealth he’d already seen, he assumed it was Cuban.

“You saw the look on his face when I suggested it earlier,” Rupert said, unforgivably fascinated by the way Gil played with his cigar. “I felt like I’d just kicked an overgrown puppy for no good reason.”

Gil didn’t look up when he asked, “Are you always this soft?”

Rupert managed to swallow the wine in his mouth without choking. “Generally, no. Are you ready to see what’s at our disposal for the next three weeks?”

*****

“I think it’s great that the two of you shoot pool!” Clem’s enthusiasm for the wonders of the vacation house hadn’t waned at all in the hour since they’d started the tour. He was prone to itemizing every single feature in each room they came to, and it took all of Rupert’s skills of persuasion to convince the demon that no, he didn’t need to go into so much detail.

When they came to the door at end of the hallway on the upper floor, Clem opened it with a flourish. “And this is your bedroom,” he said happily, leading them inside.

“Bedroom? As in one?” Gil looked at the large bed that dominated the room. “There aren’t any others?”

“I think there were, but they had to make room for the library,” Clem said, cheerfully ignorant of the tension in Gil’s voice. “Mr. Giles, your clothes and stuff are in this dresser and closet, and Mr. Grissom, your stuff is here.”

“Thank you, Clem.” Rupert went to the closet to see what had been chosen for him.

“I hope you like what I got you, Mr. Grissom. Miss Morgan said she was sure you would.” Clem opened the other closet door to reveal a number of Hawaiian-print, short-sleeve shirts. While Gil took a step back from the explosion of color, Clem opened one of the drawers and held something up in a leopard print. “I forgot to ask if you were a boxers or briefs kind of guy, so I got you both kinds.”

Rupert blinked at the underwear Gil was expected to make due with and decided they’d both had enough for the day. He interrupted Clem’s friendly chatter with, “Thank you very much for the tour and for going out to get clothing for Mr. Grissom. However, I think it’s time —”

“— for me to go,” Clem finished, moving toward the door. Before he reached it, he slapped his head. “I’m so stupid, I almost forgot. You can find everything you need in the night stand.”

Gil looked at Rupert, who apparently found his feet incredibly fascinating just at that moment. When it was clear that Rupert wasn’t going to ask, he said, “What do you mean by everything?”

Clem’s face turned a mottled purple and orange, and he stammered out, “You know. Things. That — you know — two guys —” He trailed off helplessly. When Gil still looked confused, he said, “Mr. Giles, you know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Yes, Clem. I understand. We’ll see you in the morning,” he said, his voice a bit choked.

After Clem left, Gil stared at Rupert for a long moment. “I don’t want to know what he was trying to say.”

“All right.”

“I mean it.”

“So I gathered. Don’t worry; your denial is safe with me.” Rupert nodded toward the door next to the bed. “I assume that’s the bathroom. Would you like to use it first?”

“I guess.” Gil looked up at the shelf in his closet before closing the door. “I wonder where the extra blankets are.”

“Why?”

“So I can sleep on the couch.”

Rupert raised his eyebrows at that. “The bed is large enough for two.”

“I know,” Gil said a touch defensively.

“Unless you snore, kick, steal the blankets or talk in your sleep, I have no problem sharing.” Rupert rummaged through the other drawers until he found night clothes. He pulled out a pair of pajama bottoms and tossed them on the bed.

“I don’t. Not that I know of, anyway.” Gil remained unhappy.

Rupert looked at him with absolute sincerity and asked, “Are you worried that you’ll take advantage of me during the night?”

It took Gil a moment to hear the question correctly, and when he did, he gave Rupert a dirty look before stalking into the bathroom.

*****

Rupert woke up with a gasp, and before he had time to remember he wasn’t alone, he scrambled out of the bed and backed into the nearest corner. As he fought to slow his breathing and heart rate, he caught sight of the bed and waited to see if he’d awakened Gil with his early morning acrobatics. With the light of a single moon shining in through the window, he could make out Gil’s still form.

The lack of movement was enough to reassure him, and after a few minutes, he made his way to the dresser to pull out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He went into the bathroom to change and to look at his watch. After muttering, “Damn, only two hours,” he got dressed and left the suite.

*****

Gil woke up slowly, taking sleepy pleasure in the absolute comfort of the bed. Given the smooth feel of the sheets, he was starting to get a glimmer of why Catherine and Sara occasionally obsessed over thread count.

It wasn’t often that he could take his time getting out of bed, and since Rupert was already up and moving, he decided to take advantage and simply enjoy the early morning sunshine.

His decadent laziness lasted all of two minutes before boredom set in.

*****

Gil padded down the stairs and stopped for a quick look in the library to see if he needed to pry Rupert out for breakfast. After confirming that the room was empty, he continued to the bar room, where he found Rupert stretched out along the couch with a book in hand.

“Is there coffee?”

“I believe you’ll find fresh coffee in the kitchen.” Rupert looked up. “I wouldn’t have thought I’d ever say this to anyone, but loud prints suit you.”

Gil shook his head with a brief grimace. “I’m just happy none of my people will see me in this. Do you need a refill?”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve been drinking tea since I got up.”

When Gil returned, Rupert was standing at the French doors, looking out at the ocean. The book he’d been reading sat on the side table. Curious, Gil turned it so he could see the title. “Faust: Eine Tragödie. Appropriate, given what Ms. Morgan told us yesterday. Did you find it in the library?”

Without turning around, Rupert said, “No. It was waiting for me in the kitchen when I came down this morning.”

“Waiting for you?”

“Yes.” Rupert turned toward him. “It was beautifully gift wrapped with a note stating that the book is mine to keep, even should I turn down their offer of employment.”

Gil got a good look at Rupert, the bright sunlight emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes and his weary expression. “You look like hell.”

“I’m sorry,” Rupert said, his eyebrows raised. “Did I miss a conversational segue? I could have sworn we were discussing the book just a moment ago.”

“Given how exhausted you appear to be, I’m surprised you haven’t missed more.” Gil cocked his head. “I was alone when I woke up this morning. How long have you been up? Or should I be asking if you got any sleep at all last night?”

“You are proving once again that you make an excellent mother.” The words were clipped. “However, I’m not in need of one.”

“I doubt that. Since you’re not eating or sleeping, someone needs to watch you.” At Rupert’s glare, he raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it. For now.”

“For good would be better,” he grumbled.

“Do I really look like someone who gives up that easily?” Gil gave Rupert the same lazy smile he usually saved for suspects in the interrogation room.

“Oh, for the love of —” Rupert scraped his hand through his hair. “You’re not responsible for me. If anything, it’s the other way around. You wouldn’t be here if not for me.”

“The way I see it, we’re responsible for each other,” he said with a serious note in his voice. “They’re throwing a lot of temptation your way.”

“You’re right. They are.” His irritation fading as fast as it had arisen, Rupert looked at him with a thoughtful expression. “It makes me wonder if you might not be part of that temptation.”

“What? No.” Gil spoke decisively. “I’m not.”

“How do you know?”

“I —” Gil paused to gather his thoughts. Speaking carefully, he said, “For one thing, we just met. For another, I’m not a woman.”

Rupert gave him a direct look. “Jenny was my second love. Ethan was my first.”

Gil blinked. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” After giving the other man a moment to consider the implications, Rupert said, “Relax. Despite my supposition, I’m not convinced your presence here was intentional.”

“You aren’t?” After a pause, Gil asked, “Why not?”

“To be honest, you’re a bit straight-laced for my tastes.”

Vaguely offended by the description, Gil asked, “Straight-laced?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being conservative,” Rupert said apologetically. “It’s just that I tend to favor more — adventurous — types.”

“You don’t think I’m adventurous?” Gil’s voice rose slightly.

With more than a hint of impatience in his tone, Rupert said, “Considering how determined you are to dispel the notion that we’re lovers, what am I supposed to think?”

“I’m adventurous,” Gil said defensively.

Surprised by his reaction, Rupert said, “All right, you’re adventurous.”

“I am!” Gil heard the petulance in his own voice, but he didn’t care.

“Fine — you walk on the wild side of life.”

“I ride roller coasters!”

“Wow.” Both men turned at the sound of Lilah Morgan’s voice. “You are quite the daredevil, aren’t you? If you weren’t already taken, I can tell you right now that I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off a thrill-seeker like you.”

Gil stood there for a moment, looking at her in disbelief. “Are you always this nasty?”

“I’m a lawyer at Wolfram and Hart,” she said with a smile. “It’s pretty much in my job description.”

“I know nice lawyers,” he said, unwilling to roll over for her.

“Tell me, do they have to moonlight at the Doublemeat Palace to pay their bills?”

Before Gil could answer, Rupert stepped between them, saying, “Enough. The two of you can go to your separate corners for the time being.” She saluted Rupert with a tight smile while Gil shot him an irritated look. Rupert ignored him. “Lilah, the clock started as soon as you came through the door. I suggest you get started.”

“Certainly, Rupert,” she said.

“It’s Dr. Giles to you.”

*****

Lilah drank the last of her orange juice, and Clem reached in to take the glass from the table and refill it before she could complain about the service. Again.

“After all, Wolfram and Hart has existed in one form or another for quite a few millennia, which is more than you can say for most institutions.”

“Indeed,” Rupert murmured. “The Council is a mere neophyte in comparison.”

She flickered an irritated glance at him before turning to the next page of the binder she’d presented to Rupert the day before. “However, we don’t keep our eyes fixed on the past. Wolfram and Hart’s commitment to its objectives can be seen in its long-term planning.”

Rupert looked at the list. “I see you’ve only noted projects for the next three hundred years. Is there something I should know about?”

“You’ll find out quite a lot once you sign your employment agreement, Dr. Giles. Until then, I’m afraid you’ll have to make due with hints.”

Gil, his plate untouched for the last half hour, looked up and said, “I can’t believe you’re proud of the fact that your law firm introduced bubonic plague to Europe.”

Lilah rolled her eyes. “Gil —” When Rupert cleared his throat in objection, she said, “Mr. Grissom, please. I know you’re having a hard time with the concept, but really, we’re evil. We’re honored to have been the first group in human history to deploy biological agents as an act of undeclared war. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can stop repeating yourself.”

“I believe your time is up, Lilah,” Rupert said, his tone of voice brooking no argument. “Same time tomorrow?”

She looked as if she wanted to object, but she simply nodded before standing to repack her briefcase. “Until tomorrow.” At the door, she turned to say, “I do hope the two of you can find something to do to keep yourselves entertained.”

Clem stepped up to the table again, this time to begin clearing away the remains of breakfast. He chattered nervously, “Wow. For a human who isn’t a Slayer, she’s kind of scary, isn’t she? There are still donuts — including jelly-filled, Mr. Giles — in the kitchen, so if you get hungry before lunch, you know where the snacks are.”

Rupert added nothing to Clem’s running commentary, and when the demon finally left them alone, he asked, “Are you certain you want to continue sitting in on these meetings? I don’t doubt it will get worse as she goes along.”

After a moment, Gil said, “How can you sit there so calmly and listen to her describe genocide?”

“The simple answer is that I’m not surprised by her revelations.” Rupert leaned forward, pinching his nose. “The Watchers’ Council isn’t as old as Wolfram and Hart — we’ve existed as a formal organization for only twelve thousand years or so — yet most of that history is well documented in our archives.”

Gil stared at Rupert for a moment. “Only twelve thousand years?”

Rupert shrugged off the question. “I’m not surprised that her firm was responsible for the spread of plague, because at the time the epidemic occurred, there was speculation that it was deliberate.”

“I’ll ask again: how can you sit there so calmly and listen to her?”

“If I don’t, I think it’s highly likely that they’ll make us quite miserable until I do,” Rupert said firmly. “While I don’t enjoy hearing about Wolfram and Hart’s dubious accomplishments, listening to Lilah drone on this morning wasn’t the worst time I’ve ever had.”

Nodding reluctantly, Gil said, “Okay, I’ve had worse moments myself. Granted, not quite as bizarre, but definitely worse.” He pursed his lips as he thought about it. “This is going to go on for the next nineteen days, isn’t it?”

“Possibly twenty. It depends on whether or not they count yesterday as part of the contracted time.” Rupert took a deep breath. “At any rate, she’s gone for the day, and there are better ways to spend our time than to worry about a law firm’s absolute lack of ethics.”

Still upset, Gil asked, “What did you have in mind, and do you honestly think it can take my mind off mass murder?”

“If you’ll recall, there’s a lovely pool table down the hall. I hoped I could interest you in a game or two.”

On the verge of agreeing, Gil asked instead, “Don’t you have to read through the next section of the binder?”

“I read through the next several sections this morning, before you came down,” Rupert said absently as he stood up.

“I knew it!” Gil stood as well. “How much sleep did you get last night? Or even the night before when you were at my place?”

Rupert stepped back. “What difference does it make?”

“If you don’t sleep, you’ll be more vulnerable to what she has to say.”

“Gil —”

“You’re going back to bed, Rupert. Now.” Gil stepped close enough to take Rupert by the arm, and he guided him down the hall and toward the staircase.

“Has it occurred to you that I’m not sleeping for a reason?” Gil didn’t let go, despite Rupert’s efforts to shake his arm free. For the first time, he started to admit to himself that his inability to sleep was affecting his ability to function.

“What reason?” Gil didn’t pause as he dragged Rupert along.

“Gil, please —”

Gil didn’t respond or release Rupert until they reached the bedroom. “Sleep deprivation is a killer, Rupert. If even half of what you and Lilah have said about Wolfram and Hart is true, we’re not going to get away from here intact unless you’re well rested.”

“I can’t,” Rupert said, angry about having to admit it.

“Can’t what? Sleep? I already figured that out. I’ll look for a sleep aid in the bathroom while you change for bed.”

“It won’t help.”

Gil stopped and turned. “What won’t help? A sleeping pill?”

“I can get to sleep easily enough, but staying that way —” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, as if to clear it.

After a moment of thought, Gil asked, “Are you having nightmares?”

“One, actually. Only the one.” Rupert stood there, tense and unhappy, refusing to meet Gil’s eyes.

“What nightmare?” He took two steps toward Rupert when he didn’t respond right away. “Rupert? What nightmare?”

He still didn’t look at Gil. He couldn’t. “It’s about Buffy. I keep dreaming of her jump off the tower.” Rupert looked up at Gil’s frozen expression. “I apologize. I had no intention of blurting it out like that.”

Gil shook his head slowly. “No, don’t apologize. It hadn’t occurred to me that she might have committed suicide.”

“She didn’t.” Rupert angrily shoved his fists into his pockets.

“You just said she jumped off a tower. Did I miss something?”

Rupert turned away from Gil. “I think you’re right. I need to sleep.”

“Rupert —”

“Please, Gil. I don’t want —” Rupert took a steadying breath. “I can’t talk about this now. Just let me sleep.”

Gil looked at his back for a long moment. “Fine. Sleep. We’ll talk later,” he said.

In a voice tight with grief, Rupert said, “It’s too painful.”

“I know,” Gil said softly. “And I also know that even if you don’t want to talk about it, you need to talk about it.” He waited for a moment, and when Rupert didn’t respond, he left the room.

*****

The aroma of fresh coffee drew Gil to the kitchen like a corpse draws flies, and he was as helpless to ignore it. He’d just poured a cup for himself and was taking a sip when Clem walked in, shrieking slightly when he saw Gil at the counter.

“Oh, gee, Mr. Grissom. You scared me,” he said, clutching at his chest. “I thought you and Mr. Giles were — um —”

“He’s sleeping,” Gil said quickly, to avert Clem from making an attempt at tact.

“That’s good! Spike doesn’t think he’s been getting enough lately. He’ll be happy to hear that he is now.”

Clem, recovered from his brief fright, moved to the kitchen sink to finish washing the few dishes that remained from breakfast. After a moment, he looked up and caught Gil staring at him. He said nervously, “Uh, just so you know, I’m not really into that kind of thing.”

Confused, Gil asked, “What kind of thing?”

“Tight skins.” Clem’s skin turned a mottled purple and orange again, and he started scrubbing a small plate with unnecessary vigor. “Not that I don’t like tight skins. I mean, some of my best friends have tight skin. But —”

Understanding dawned, and Gil interrupted Clem’s babbling with, “I’m not interested in you that way.”

Clem gave a big sigh of relief and smiled. “Wow! Okay! That’s great! I mean, not that I wouldn’t, if you really wanted to, because you’re nice, but, you know, not my thing.”

“Right.”

“It’s only that the way you were staring at me —” Clem shook his head and chuckled. “I just got the wrong idea is all.”

“Oh.” Gil smiled. “Sorry about that. I’m a scientist, and I’ve never seen anyone quite like you. I was staring out of curiosity, and that was rude.”

“You’re a scientist? Really? That’s neat! I used to watch Mr. Wizard all the time. He was great. Are you that kind of scientist?” Clem finished washing the last coffee cup in the sink.

“I study crime scenes and evidence, so I can try to determine what happened,” Gil said, his smile growing in the face of Clem’s enthusiasm.

“Wow! Is that like Profiler? I really liked that show, too,” he said, picking up a dish towel to start drying a plate.

Gil shook his head slightly as he considered how to answer Clem’s question. In a moment, it came to him. “Do you remember Quincy?”

“You’re a medical examiner?”

He almost hated having to correct Clem. “No, I’m not a doctor. But I do examine corpses.”

Clem shuddered in reaction. “Yuck. I don’t like dead bodies.”

“A lot of people find the reminder of death to be disturbing,” Gil said philosophically.

“It’s not that.” Clem picked up a glass to wipe dry. “In Sunnydale, a dead body usually means there’s a demon around, and if there’s a demon around, that means the Slayer will show up sooner or later, and the way I heard it, unexpected bodies always made her cranky, which was never a good thing. Do you want a warm-up on your coffee?”

It took Gil a moment to sort out Clem’s question from the rest of his comments, and when he held out his cup for a refill, he asked a question of his own. “Did you know Buffy?”

“The Slayer? Nah. I never met her.” Clem returned the pot to its warmer and continued drying dishes. “I could have — Spike offered to introduce me and all — but every time I asked about it later, he said it wasn’t a good time.”

“Why not?” Gil took a sip of his coffee, enjoying the mellow flavor.

“Well, first it was because her mom got sick and died, and then there was that business with Glorificus. And after that, Buffy was kind of dead, so, you know, no time to do it.” Clem finished drying the few pieces of silverware, and then he started to put the dishes away. Suddenly alarmed, he said quickly. “Darn it! I wasn’t supposed to say that to anyone!”

“Say what?”

“That Buffy’s dead.” Clem’s agitation increased. “Everyone’s supposed to think she’s still alive.”

“Relax, Clem. Mr. Giles told me she died. It was almost seven weeks ago, right?” He wondered if a pat on the back would help soothe the demon. And then he wondered if he had the nerve to try it.

“You know, then?”

“I do —”

“That’s a relief.”

Gil narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand how a secret like that could be kept. Won’t people miss seeing her around?”

“Not with the Buffybot doing patrols,” he said happily.

“The —”

“Anyway,” Clem continued, “like I was saying, I never got a chance to be introduced.”

Considering Clem’s tendency to blurt out whatever was on his mind, Gil decided it was time to take greater control over the conversation — and possibly learn a bit more about the young woman whose loss so clearly devastated Rupert. “You wouldn’t have been afraid to meet Buffy?”

“Maybe, just a little. Slayers and demons aren’t usually good company. But Spike says she was pretty open-minded. He didn’t think she’d haul off and kill me for no reason.”

Gil said casually, “Spike is a friend of yours, right?”

Clem shrugged. “Yeah. We play kitten poker on Tuesday nights.”

“So Spike’s a demon, too?” Gil took another sip of his coffee in an effort to keep himself from asking about kitten poker.

“He’s a vampire, not a full demon.” Clem’s eyes grew large. “Not that I hold it against him or anything!”

Uncertain how to respond, Gil countered with, “Of course not.”

“It’s just that some of the guys think vampires are kind of trashy.” Clem looked mildly embarrassed at the admission. “I don’t think they are. I mean, if I did, I wouldn’t hang out with Spike, you know?”

Frowning, Gil said, “If Spike is a vampire, how did he get to be friends with Buffy?”

“Oh they weren’t friends!” Clem laughed. “He just helped her out, on account of being in love with her and the whole chip thing.”

“He was in love with her?” Gil entertained the possibility that Clem was actually repeating a plot line from a soap opera.

“Yeah.” With the dishes put away and the counters wiped down, Clem relaxed against the counter. “Most of the guys think Spike is pretty stupid for falling for a Slayer like that, but I think it’s kind of romantic.”

When Clem got lost in his thoughts, Gil brought him back by saying, “So Spike fell in love with Buffy, and he started helping her out?”

“Right!”

“What’s the ‘chip thing’ you mentioned a moment ago?” Gil was being drawn into the narrative despite his reservations about its veracity.

“A while back, the government put a chip in Spike’s head,” Clem said.

Gil blinked at the sudden introduction of the government to the conversation. After a moment, he asked, “What does the chip do?”

Clearly uncomfortable with the question, Clem shifted from foot to foot. “It keeps him from hurting humans, but don’t tell Spike I told you, okay? He gets upset when anyone mentions it.”

“I won’t say a word,” Gil promised. “I want to be sure I understand what you told me, okay?”

Clem responded with a big smile and, “Sure!”

“Spike, a vampire, had a chip put into his head, and that chip keeps him from killing people.” At Clem’s nod, Gil added, “But you said yesterday he was on a demon-killing kick, so that means he was able to help Buffy?”

“Right!”

“And Spike was in love with Buffy.” His coffee had cooled down enough for Gil to take a larger swallow.

“Yep,” Clem said wistfully. “He used to talk about her shampoo-commercial hair all the time.”

After reminding himself to focus, Gil ignored Clem’s last comment and returned to an earlier statement. “What’s Glorificus? Why did it keep you from meeting Buffy?”

Gil noticed that when Clem lost his happy face, all of his skin drooped at the same time. “She was a really mean hellgod. She’s the reason Buffy had to die,” Clem said sadly.

Gently, Gil prompted him with, “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do either. Whenever Spike tries to explain, he just starts crying again.” Clem shuffled his feet. “All I know is that Buffy had to die to save the world and that Spike blames himself for not getting up to the top of the tower in time.”

*****

Gil sat at the single computer in the library, looking through the electronic catalogue to see what was on the shelves. Though his conversation with Clem had given him a great deal to think about, he wanted to let the information sit for a while. Reading Newton’s Treatise on Magic and Science would keep him occupied in the meanwhile. With the help of the catalogue, he located the book — a modern day reprint — and headed back to the bedroom to sit vigil in case — when — Rupert had a nightmare.

There wasn’t a chair in the room, but Gil didn’t really see the need for one. Rupert was lying on top of the covers along one side of the bed, and there was more than enough room for Gil to stretch out along the other side. When he found his comfort zone, he opened the book and began to read.

He was asleep in less than ten minutes.

*****

Rupert dreamt.

Worse, Rupert knew he dreamt, yet he was unable to stop the dream or even direct it.

Helpless, he relived his last fight with Buffy, remembering again that she’d never actually said she didn’t hate him. He watched as she beat Glory down then walked off when Ben emerged. He felt the young man’s fruitless struggle as he suffocated him, and then he looked up when he realized that the portal had opened. His legs twitched restlessly as his dream entered the final scene — Buffy’s run to the edge of the platform and —”Buffy, NO!”

The shout woke Gil up just in time for him to see Rupert launch himself from the bed, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt more inadequate than he did in that moment. Gil moved off the bed slowly. “Rupert?”

Rupert made a visible effort to control himself. “I’m fine.”

“Excuse me?” When Rupert opened his mouth to speak, Gil said, “No, I heard you the first time. I just have a hard time understanding why you think I’m a complete idiot.”

“I —” Blinking in confusion, Rupert said, “What are you talking about? I never said that.”

“Really?” Gil raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure? Because that’s the only reason I can think of for you to lie to me.”

Rupert shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t —”

“You just said you were fine.” Gil got close enough to turn Rupert to face the mirror over the dresser. “Look at yourself. You’re about as far from fine as anyone I’ve seen.”

Shaking Gil off, Rupert backed away. “Leave me alone, Gil.”

“No.”

“It was just a nightmare. That’s all.” Rupert took another step back.

Gil frowned, and stepping forward, he said, “Right. Just a nightmare — about someone you loved jumping to her death.”

Shaking with reaction to the dream and anger at Gil, Rupert clenched his jaw, saying, “It wasn’t like that. What she did —”

“— saved the world, I know. But —”

“But nothing. You don’t understand. You never will.”

Gil could see Rupert was reaching his breaking point. He knew Catherine or Nick would be a hell of a lot better at this than he was, but neither of them was there at the moment. In any event, he had a feeling the other man would appreciate bluntness more than kind words and sympathetic looks.

“I may not understand everything about your life, but I understand a hell of a lot about death. No matter how much you pretty it up, she still committed suicide.”

“No!” Rupert backed up to the wall. “She sacrificed her life for this world. If not for her —”

“— we’d all be dead.” Gil remained where he was. “She still killed herself.”

“She didn’t!” Rupert swept his arm back, hitting the wall above the nightstand. Gil fought not to wince at the dull thud of impact. “She didn’t kill herself.”

“She did,” he said deliberately, maintaining his poker face and distance for the time being.

“She did not!” Rupert abruptly turned away from Gil and faced the wall, his shoulders hunched as if he was holding himself in very tightly.

“Deliberate suicide — and she did it in front of you,” Gil said, wondering if he was going to get his nose broken for his trouble.

“She left me, damn her!” At the expletive, Rupert’s fist slammed into the wall. His anger given vent, he fell to his knees, each sob sounding as if it were being violently wrenched from him.

Gil took a deep breath and went to him. He got his arms around Rupert, and murmuring the soothing noises he recalled his mother making when he was a child, helped the other man up to the bed. Though he rolled away, Gil followed, catching him and holding him close. Eventually, Rupert gave up struggling against Gil’s embrace and accepted the offer of comfort.

It was another hour before he expelled the worst of his grief and fell asleep.

*****

When Rupert awoke, it was to the realization that for the first time in months, he felt at peace with the world around him. The anger, the insecurity, the sense of betrayal — all were gone, and in their place was a clarity he hadn’t ever truly experienced before. For the first time since Buffy’s death, the thought of leaving Sunnydale didn’t induce a panicked conviction that he had to remain else all would be lost. He was finally able to admit that Travers might have a point — staying in Sunnydale wasn’t a good idea — but he wasn’t quite ready to admit that leaving was the better idea.

Rupert sighed and decided not to make any decisions quite yet. He was far too comfortable and relaxed to have that particular conversation with himself. And anyway, he was cuddled up next to — draped half across, actually — a warm, solid body with a strong, steady heartbeat. It wasn’t really the time or place to contemplate his future.

Feeling no immediate need to move from away his very comfortable pillow, Rupert splayed his hand across Gil’s stomach. When there was no response, he curled his fingers into a loose fist, leaving his index finger free to trace the vibrant patterns on the shirt. As he let his mind drift, he luxuriated in the simple pleasure of waking up in another person’s arms.

Not much later, his pillow finally stirred, and Rupert raised his head slightly to look at him. Fresh from sleep, Gil’s walls were down, and Rupert found the open, vulnerable look in his eyes to be very appealing.

His voice rough from his earlier excess of grief, Rupert said, “I take it back.”

Caught by surprise, Gil asked, “Take what back?”

Rupert raised himself to get a better view of Gil’s face. “You might just be my type after all,” he said quietly.

His raspy, Gil asked, “Your type?”

“And judging by the dilation of your pupils, the light sheen of sweat on your brow and your quickened breathing, you’re either suffering withdrawal — or I might be your type as well.”

As he stared into Rupert’s eyes, waiting to see what would happen next, Gil held his breath, even as his pulse sped up. The memory of his conversation with Phillip resurfaced, and he was finally able to agree that yes, there probably was something to the fact that he’d imagined Phillip was matchmaking.

Rupert’s gaze was intense as he said, “I’d rather like to kiss you right now, but I don’t want to frighten you into running off.”

Gil swallowed hard. “What makes you think I’d run?”

“The hint of panic in your eyes speaks volumes,” Rupert said with a gentle smile before he rolled away and stood up to stretch. “It’s amazing what a few hours of sleep can do for one’s disposition. I think I’ll see if the ocean is as warm as Wolfram and Hart claims it is.”

Rupert left the room without a backward glance or even a swimsuit, and Gil stared at the empty doorway, wondering what the hell had just happened.

*****

“Actually, we have no need to establish ties with other libraries,” Lilah said, with the slightly bored and superior tone of someone who knows all the right people.

“Fine. Wolfram and Hart has everything it needs. What makes you think your stacks will be up to my standards?” Rupert settled back in his chair and peeled a banana.

“You’ve seen the library here?” At Rupert’s reluctant nod, she continued, “That’s but a small portion of the whole. Trust me when I say we have everything ever published.”

Rupert gave her a skeptical look. “Everything.”

“Everything.” Lilah smiled as she played her trump card. “And ‘everything’ includes a certain song written by a young man back in the seventies.”

Gil saw the dull flush rise from Rupert’s neck and added yet another question to his extensive list of things to ask. It was, however, at the bottom of the list. Further up were questions about magic and if anyone could learn to cast a spell, and higher than those were a class of questions having to do with life and death in Sunnydale.

At the very top of the list was the question of the kiss-that-wasn’t. He’d had similar moments in his life — moments fraught with tension and possibility — but until now, he hadn’t spent days obsessing over them. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out if he was more disappointed or relieved that Rupert hadn’t kissed him. He’d created a number of lists outlining the pros and cons, and then he’d thrown them away as useless. Gil hadn’t felt so uncertain about anything since his teen years, and he honestly didn’t know how to react, either to Rupert or the kiss-that-wasn’t.

“Lilah, this is all very fine and well, but you’re not telling me anything that isn’t already in the binder.” Rupert stood up, rubbing his neck. “If all you plan to do is regurgitate it word for word, I see no point in wasting each other’s time.”

Curious, she said, “You read it all the way through?”

“From cover to cover, yes. And if I’d known your marketing drivel was all it took to cure my insomnia, I would have given you a call weeks ago.” He took off his glasses to polish them. “In any event, I’ve seen nothing in there to convince me to toss over a lifetime of loyalty to the Powers.”

Gil happened to glance at Lilah’s face and saw what might have been a gleam of triumph in her eyes. Though he kept a straight face, inside, he worried about why she was suddenly happy.

“As it happens, what isn’t mentioned is the signing bonus,” she answered smoothly.

Rupert rolled his eyes, saying, “Money has never been of particular interest to me.”

“We know.”

When Lilah didn’t continue, Rupert scowled at her. “Then what else could you possibly offer?”

“Angel.” After Rupert drew a sharp breath, she added, “In chains.”

He shook his head and backed away. “No.”

“Please, Dr. Giles, don’t tell me you haven’t fantasized about it at least a few times over the last three years,” she said, her voice taking on a seductive note.

Alarmed, Gil was about to ask what she was talking about when Rupert bit out, “It’s not possible.”

“But it is.” She pulled a file from her briefcase and stood up, walking toward Rupert as he backed away. “Just think of it. You in a room with a vat of holy water and Angel shackled to the wall.”

Gil watched as Rupert seemed to waver for a moment before strengthening his resolve. “No. I don’t want that.”

“Are you sure? Somehow, I have a hard time believing that. After all, you survived ten hours — or was it twelve? Either way, you walked away from the Scourge of Europe with relatively minor injuries.” Lilah stopped a few feet away from Rupert. “That takes balls, Dr. Giles, and I can’t imagine that anyone who survived Angelus wouldn’t jump at the chance for a little revenge.”

Gil stood up, ready to offer support to the other man, though he wasn’t sure if the support would take the form of helping him fend her off or holding her so Rupert could wrap his hands around her neck.

Rupert swallowed hard, and he croaked out, “If you want him dusted, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

Lilah said regretfully, “Unfortunately, dusting him isn’t an option. It turns out that Angel has a significant role to play in the real apocalypse, which means the Senior Partners want to keep him around for a while.” Her voice brightened in fake cheer. “But you can torture him as much as you like.”

Catching sight of Rupert’s face, Gil said flatly, “Get out, Lilah.”

She turned to look at him and lifted an eyebrow. “Did you say something, Spanky?”

Her sarcasm was enough to snap Rupert out of his daze. “His name is Mr. Grissom, and he’s right. It’s time for you to leave.”

She shrugged an elegant shoulder and went back to the dining table to pick up her briefcase. At the door, she paused to say, “I’ll give you a few days to think it over,” before leaving.

After a long moment, Gil said, “Who’s Angel?”

“He’s the one who killed Jenny,” he said distractedly before looking Gil in the eye. “This is something I’ll talk to you about, but not now.”

Alarmed, Gil took a step toward him. “Why not now?”

“I need to take a walk.” Rupert turned toward the bar room and freedom.

“I’ll walk with you.”

Rupert stopped, and without looking back at Gil, he shook his head. “No. I need to be alone for a bit. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Rupert —”

“We’ll talk when I get back — I promise.”

Gil watched in frustration and Rupert walked off, tense and unhappy. He swore under his breath, and after a moment, he went back to the table. When he reached it, he realized that Lilah had left the folder behind. Curious, he opened it up.

*****

Rupert was just barely through the door when Gil started reciting, “‘Patient presented with multiple fractures of the right hand, including fractures of DII and DIII dextra as well as right shoulder luxation, multiple hematomae and multiple small S2 burns. Patient stated that he fell down a flight of stairs and that police involvement was unnecessary.’” He looked up at Rupert. “You couldn’t have come up with a better excuse than falling down the stairs?”

Rupert sighed and held his hand out for the folder. “I presume Lilah left it behind.”

Gil handed the file to him. “I’ve already been through it.”

“I imagine you have,” he said, glancing through the paperwork himself. “I’m rather surprised she limited herself to just this visit. On the other hand, given what’s on the table at the moment, I suppose I shouldn’t be.”

“What the hell was going on that night?”

“I was tortured by Angel,” Rupert said absently as he frowned at one of the medical photos.

“Believe it or not, I managed to figure that out on my own. What I haven’t figured out is why you were tortured.”

“I was being a selfish bastard and wouldn’t tell him how to bring about the end of the world.” Rupert held up a photo of his back. The bruising was extensive and deep.

Gil thought about that statement, so dryly given, and was startled by his own lack of disbelief. At some point within the last few days, it became perfectly reasonable that someone would be tortured for not explaining how to set off an apocalypse. He shook his head in an effort to clear it and said, “You told me that Jenny’s killer had been punished, yet apparently, he’s walking around free. How?”

“When I first took up my duty as Buffy’s Watcher, Angel proved himself to be helpful to our cause.” Rupert pulled out another photo, this one showing his hand before they took x-rays.

“And then?”

“We found out he was a vampire —” His voice trailed off as he started to read one of the medical reports.

Mildly annoyed by the lack of information, Gil gently pulled the folder out of Rupert’s hands and prompted him with, “Like Spike.”

“No, not like Spike. Angel had a —” Puzzled, Rupert asked, “Where did you hear about Spike?”

“Clem told me about him a few days ago.” When Rupert looked even more confused, Gil added, “The morning you had your little nap.”

“Oh.” He blushed slightly. “Where was I again?”

“You were about to tell me why Angel wasn’t like Spike,” Gil said, absurdly pleased that he’d managed to throw Rupert off balance.

“Angel had — has — a soul.”

Gil wondered at the cruelty of a universe that could throw him off-balance so blithely just after making him feel so good. He contemplated his possible responses, carefully weighing one against the other. “Huh?”

“A soul. And before you ask, no, it isn’t at all common for a vampire to have a soul.” Rupert looked around for a moment then went to the couch and sank into the corner.

“A vampire with a soul?” Gil took a seat as well, sitting sideways so he could watch the other man as he told the tale. “This is the same vampire who tortured you, right?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said, sounding more weary than he had in days. “It gets a bit confusing, though. When Angel killed Jenny and tortured me, he was without his soul and going by the name of Angelus.”

“Multiple personality disorder?”

“Mystically speaking, yes. When he was one hundred and fifty years old, give or take a decade, Angelus killed the wrong girl from the wrong family. They took their revenge by giving him back his human soul — a curse of sorts.” Rupert glanced at Gil. “Are you still with me?”

“Amazingly, yes,” he said, his lips quirking into a half smile.

“Right, then. He gets his soul back and thus begins a century of guilt-driven brooding, which is perfectly in accordance with the Romany curse.” Rupert began to massage his right hand, an action Gil was fairly certain he wasn’t aware of. “And then Angel ends up in Sunnydale and meets Buffy.”

“But she didn’t slay him?”

“Angel was — and is — tall, dark and brooding, and Buffy was sixteen. Do the math,” Rupert answered wryly.

Gil delicately said, “Oh. Heathcliff and Catherine?”

“Perhaps Rochester and Eyre.” Rupert shifted to find a more comfortable position. “On top of that, she hadn’t yet learned to hone her senses to be able to detect a vampire when it still looked human, so she didn’t initially realize what he was.”

“She’d already fallen in love with him by the time she found out?”

Nodding, Rupert added, “And he with her. It was all very dramatic.”

Gil sat and listened to Rupert unfold the story of how Angel rejoined humanity through Buffy then lost his soul when he experienced a moment of true happiness with her. Some two hours passed by the time he explained how Buffy sent Angel to hell and Angel’s ultimate return to Sunnydale. At the end of his narrative, Gil had only one question. “How can you not want to put Angel through the same torture he put you through?”

A flicker of emotion crossed his face, but it passed too quickly for Gil to identify it. “Angelus was the one who tortured me, and Angel has been paying for that every day since.” Almost too softly for Gil to hear, he added, “And anyway, Buffy wouldn’t have wanted me to.”

*****

Glancing at his watch when he awoke, Rupert was pleased to see that he’d slept a full six hours. Between finally being able to grieve for Buffy and telling Gil the story of Angel the day before, a number of old and new wounds had finally started to heal.

He shifted slightly to ease a hint of discomfort, both amused and mildly embarrassed that his libido was making such an enthusiastic recovery these days. Given his dreams lately — some of which were beginning to star his rooming companion — he was grateful not to have to clean up a sticky mess. He moved carefully to stand and went into the bathroom to take care of his various needs, relieved that he hadn’t awakened Gil in the process.

His shower and erection dealt with, Rupert stood at the mirror to shave, wondering idly what Lilah would have to say when she appeared for breakfast. If Angel was the opening salvo, he didn’t want to think what else she might come up with.

*****

“I still don’t get the curse,” Gil said, dipping his fork into his eggs.

“Are you having trouble understanding the intent of it or the loophole?” Rupert took a sip of his tea and leaned back. Though his appetite was steadily improving, he wasn’t up to eating large meals just yet.

“The loophole. It doesn’t make sense.”

Genuinely curious, Rupert asked, “Do you think magic is supposed to make sense?”

“It has rules, doesn’t it?” Warming to the topic, Gil added, “When you did that spell, you added the ingredients in a certain order, didn’t you?”

“With that spell, I’m afraid not.” His eyebrows went up at Gil’s crestfallen look. “Though there are spells where it’s vital to get the order of the ingredients correct.”

Satisfied, Gil took a quick bite of his eggs. “So some spells have rules and others don’t — kind of like cooking, right?” At Rupert’s nod, he continued, “The loophole in the curse, though, that doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t they want him to keep his soul forever? Even if he stopped brooding, it sounds like his soul would keep him pretty well leashed.”

“A curse isn’t quite as effective if there’s no chance of parole.” His lips pursed, Rupert thought back to what he’d learned about Angel’s curse after it was too late to do them any good. “You also need to remember that they were punishing the demon by leashing it with a human soul. That Angel also suffered would have been irrelevant to them. In Angelus’ case, the loophole was meant to be so small as to be virtually nonexistent. I don’t think anyone realized that someone might be able to break through Angel’s guilt and make him feel hope again.”

“Is that what Buffy did? She made him feel hope?”

“Among other things, yes.” Rupert glanced at his watch. “I wonder what’s keeping Lilah.”

*****

“Isn’t it a good thing that she didn’t come today?” Gil tucked into his dinner with gusto as Rupert continued to pick at the food on his own plate. Her failure to appear that day was more than sufficient to kill the good mood he’d had throughout most of the morning.

“Yes. And no.” Giving up the pretense of hunger, he stood and started to pace, choosing to circle the dining table rather than confining himself to a single wall. “She’s either plotting a new offer, or she’s been terminated by her employers.”

Gil stopped eating and stared at Rupert. “When you say ‘terminated,’ you mean fired, right?”

“Gil, please!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Right. Evil law firm. Got it.”

Rupert continued to stalk around the table. “It’s no joke. If Lilah’s been removed, God only knows who will arrive in her place. Or if anyone will at all.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that last part.” Gil aimed a dirty look at Rupert. “Much though I enjoy your company and the contents of the library, I have no desire to spend the rest of my life here.” After a moment, he added, “Anyway, maybe she got stuck in meetings all day.”

“And if she didn’t?”

After thinking for a moment, Gil said, “Clem could probably get us back to our world.”

Pausing to look at him, Rupert asked, “That would be the same Clem who has trouble finding the door he’s supposed to use when he leaves for the day, yes?”

Gil sighed.

*****

“Those baby cheeks of yours make you look so innocent. I should have known better.” Rupert wasn’t bitter as such, but he wasn’t happy as he reached for the tally sheet. He wasn’t sure which was worse — Lilah’s absence for a second day or his abysmal failure to beat Gil Grissom at a simple game of pool.

“I think I said something before about not judging a book by its cover. Up for another game?” Standing a hair too close to Rupert, ostensibly to look at the points, Gil absently stroked his cue stick, sending Rupert’s brain down paths he’d been attempting to block off for nearly a week. He made a conscious effort to focus on reality and not on a stray fantasy about what else Gil might be able to do with his hands.

“At the rate you’re emptying my bank accounts, I’ll have to take a job with Wolfram and Hart, just to pay you off,” he grumbled, counting up the points. “How the devil did you get to be so good at pool?”

Shrugging, Gil answered, “I’m a science nerd. All it is, really, is vectors, force and rates of spin.” Gil stopped playing with his stick, much to Rupert’s relief. However, his relief was short-lived, as Gil leaned in a bit closer and said, “I have an idea for how you can work off your debt.”

At the mention of it, an obscene image sprang fully formed in Rupert’s mind. Doing his level best to ignore it, he swallowed hard and asked, “How?”

*****

Rupert dropped a second large pillow next to the first and sat down, arranging himself in the lotus position. “I must reiterate once more, that this may not work.”

Already seated and facing Rupert, Gil nodded. “I know. You’ve given me full disclosure about how magic works, and I freely acknowledge that I might end up doing nothing more than having a nice little meditation.” He looked at Rupert over his glasses. “May we get on with it?”

“Glasses off then close your eyes.” Rupert removed his own glasses and reached forward to put his hands in Gil’s, so that they were resting palm to palm. “Breathe in slowly, and breathe out,” he said softly as he started the guided meditation. After a few minutes, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Relaxed.” Gil’s voice was deeper and rougher than usual, and Rupert took that as a sign that it was a good time to progress further.

“You said you have a special place in the mountains. I want you to picture yourself there then describe what you see.”

After a moment, Gil responded, “I’m in a clearing of aspens. There’s a lot of leaf litter. It’s a good place to find bugs.”

“Do you see anything else there?”

“No. Just dirt, rocks, leaves and trees,” he answered.

“When you look around, you see a pool of deep clear water.” Rupert waited for the expected denial, but it never came.

“Okay. It’s to my right.”

Surprised, Rupert opened his eyes to stare at Gil, wondering if the pool was the product of his imagination or genuine evidence of magical ability. “Have you seen that pool before?”

“No.” A pause and a frown. “Maybe. It looks familiar.”

“I want you to dip a hand into it, and tell me what it feels like.” Rupert concentrated on the feel of Gil’s hands beneath his own, waiting for a tingle that —”Yes. Like that.” It was most definitely magic.

“It feels odd.” Gil frowned slightly. “It doesn’t feel like water. What is it?”

“That’s your magic.” Though startled when Gil snatched his hands away, Rupert didn’t worry over his reaction. The man was a scientist and in his forties, a combination which made for a difficult transition from skepticism to acceptance, no matter how willing he might be to broaden his horizons.

“‘Magic’ is a pool of water in my mind? You’re joking,” he said flatly.

“I’m not, actually. When you’re ready to learn the basics of how to use it, let me know,” he said, just before he stood up. “For now, though, I’m fairly certain I can smell dinner. Hungry?”

*****

“Okay, you’re good.” At Rupert’s raised eyebrow, Gil added, “Very good. But I still don’t believe you’re an original member of Pink Floyd.”

“You’re that sure of yourself, are you?” Rupert put the guitar he’d found back in its case and closed it with little regret. Though it was a high-end Martin and played like a dream, he missed the familiarity of his own homely guitar. The thought of it brought his mind back around to Lilah. The last time they’d heard from her was three days ago, when she put Angel on the table. He most sincerely hoped that her absence was a deliberate bargaining ploy and not because she’d been terminated by her employers.

“I’m that sure of Pink Floyd,” he answered. After a moment, he gave Rupert a bewildered look. “Did that line of yours ever work?”

He turned back to Gil. “What do you think?”

Gil considered the question, scowling when he came to a conclusion. “I think I feel sorry for the girls you met when you were younger.”

Rupert raised his eyebrows. “Girls weren’t the only gullible ones. A fair number of lads were also willing to buy into my version of history.”

“You were a hellraiser,” Gil said, half in admiration, half in dismay. And then he caught sight of Rupert’s expression. “Don’t tell me you literally raised hell.”

He walked over to the pool table to avoid looking at Gil. “Not as such, no,” he stammered. “It was more along the lines of demon-raising.”

Sighing, Gil went to stand next to Rupert. “Just when I think I’m finally okay with everything you tell me, you say something like that. Should I ask?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said quietly. “It was a painful time, though ultimately, it was what brought me back into the fold of the Watchers’ Council.”

“I hate to say it, but listening to you talk about your life is like listening to Nick talk about that fantasy soap opera —” He paused as he stumbled over the title.

“Passions?“ Rupert shuddered, and it wasn’t entirely for effect. “God, don’t remind me. I had enough of that show when Spike was staying with me.”

They stood quietly for a few minutes, and then Gil asked, “Are you up for a game?”

“The way you play? Not likely. As you refuse to accept tutoring in magic as repayment, I’ll be dealing with my debt to you for the next several years.” Rupert caught sight of the stereo. “I’ve a better idea.”

He headed over to the cabinet that held the albums — real LPs, not the plastic crap that passed for albums these days — and started sorting through them to pick out a decent selection of music. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon was an absolute necessity, and —

“How about I help you improve your game?”

Rupert jumped at Gil’s sudden appearance by his side. “Don’t do that!”

A concerned look on his face, Gil asked, “Don’t do what?”

“Sneak up on me.” Rupert opened the stereo and stacked the records for play, unconcerned whether or not they might suffer damage. He was fairly certain that Wolfram and Hart could restore them to new should they desire.

“It’s not like you didn’t know I was in the room.” Gil sounded eminently reasonable and, Rupert thought, eminently full of shit. The man had been steadily encroaching on his personal space over the last few days, speaking suggestively and doing mildly obscene things with common objects, all with an innocent expression.

Remembering that Gil’s innocent expression hid the soul of a pool shark, Rupert decided he’d had enough. Acting on the notion that turnabout was fair play, he moved an inch closer to Gil and looked into his eyes. Speaking with a quiet intensity, he asked, “What are you playing at?”

“I’m not playing.” With a now-familiar bluntness, Gil asked, “Did you really want to kiss me that day, or were you just teasing me?”

His heart racing a bit at the implications of the question, Rupert hesitantly raised his hand to the other man’s face, ready to move away at the first signs of discomfort. “I wa —”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” Rupert and Gil turned as one to glare at Lilah. Ignoring their outright hostility, she asked cheerily, “Did you miss me?”

*****

Over the years, any number of people had attempted to get Gil’s opinion on the death penalty. Some of those people were lawyers, some were suspects, some were survivors and some were surviving family members. It was a futile effort. Gil’s beliefs were his own, and they had absolutely nothing to do with the job he did.

However, at that particular moment out of time, if he had been asked if he believed in the death penalty, he would have answered with a loud and resounding “Yes!” And then he would have volunteered to strap Lilah Morgan down for a lethal injection. It was within the realm of possibility that he might even volunteer to bludgeon her to death with his evidence kit.

When neither man answered her question, Lilah pouted. “Aw. Come on. Didn’t you miss me even a teensy little bit?”

“I missed you about as much as I missed Angelus breaking my fingers.” Rupert took a step toward her. Alarmed at the thought of how nice it would be to watch the other man rend her limb from limb, Gil touched Rupert’s arm to keep him from going any further. “If you’re here about the so-called signing bonus, forget it. I’m not interested.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Not even a little?”

“Not even a little. If you’ve nothing else to add, then I suggest that you —”

Before Rupert could finish, Lilah asked, “Were you aware that Wolfram and Hart brought Darla back?”

When the other man simply stiffened and didn’t respond immediately, Gil asked, “Who’s Darla?”

“Angel’s sire.” Rupert’s tension ratcheted upward. “What do you mean she’s back?”

“What do you think I mean?” Lilah moved into the room, smiling slightly at the two men.

Rupert watched her much the way Gil imagined he might watch a venomous snake. “Angel dusted her four years ago. She can’t be back.”

“Please.” Lilah stopped at the pool table and started playing with two of the balls as she gave Rupert a coy, cloying smile. “Do you honestly think a little thing like death could stop Wolfram and Hart from getting what it wants?”

Gil didn’t think he’d seen anyone outside a corpse be as absolutely still as Rupert was when Lilah finished speaking. He moved a bit closer to the other man and considered taking hold of his arm again, just in case he needed to stop him from attacking Lilah. All he had to do now was convince himself that protecting Lilah from Rupert was actually a good idea.

Rupert took a deep breath before speaking in a low, deliberate voice. “What are you trying to say, Lilah?”

“Death isn’t always final, Dr. Giles. You should know that. We can bring her —”

Rupert moved fast — faster than Gil would have believed possible — and he was pinning Lilah against the pool table before Gil could even react to the initial movement. “You bitch! You dare —”

Lilah scrabbled at Rupert’s hand, trying desperately to get his grip loose enough for her to breathe. “I’m not —”

“Buffy spent five long years defending the world, and she’s earned whatever peace she can find in death.” Rupert pulled her up by her shirt then slammed her into the table again. “Don’t even think you’re going to drag her back into this life.”

Gil reached the other two before Rupert could give her a serious concussion — assuming he hadn’t done so already. “Let go of her, Rupert,” he said quietly, tugging on Rupert’s arm. “She’s not worth it.”

“She just said —”

“I know. But let her go, okay?” Gil tugged on Rupert’s arm again, and this time, Rupert allowed Gil to have his way. Lilah stumbled away from them, gagging slightly as she held her throat and tried to breathe again. Gil focused on Rupert. “Don’t let Lilah drag you down to her level.”

“I wasn’t —” Lilah coughed. “I wasn’t talking about Buffy. Not that we couldn’t, but resurrecting a Slayer — especially one who’s already split the Slayer line — would cause more problems than you can possibly imagine.”

Rupert looked at her contemptuously. “Who then? Who would you bring back to life?”

“Jenny Calendar.”

*****

Some forty-five minutes later, Rupert stood in front of a mirror and pulled an ice pack away from his face. Though his eye was slightly swollen Gil didn’t think a bad bruise would form. He hoped not, at any rate.

Gil stood just behind him, abashed and mildly ashamed that he’d had to resort to violence. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

Rupert sighed. “I know.”

“I just couldn’t let you strangle her.”

“I understand, Gil.” He gave Gil a wry look in the mirror. “And truthfully, I’m not sure anything short of punching me in the face would have stopped me from killing her. What happened after you knocked me out?”

Still amazed by Lilah’s gall, Gil shook his head. “She said I had the right instincts to survive at Wolfram and Hart and tried to offer me a job. I told her to get the hell out and stay out.”

“Do you think she’ll stay away?”

Shrugging, Gil answered, “Probably not. I told her it was pretty clear you weren’t interested in the job offer, but she seemed to think she could convince you to sign. I don’t know what else she has to offer.”

“Frankly, I’m reasonably certain neither of us wants to know what else she might come up with.” Rupert turned from the mirror. “Let me see your hand.”

Gil’s immediate reaction was to hide it behind his back. “Why?”

Rupert gave him a direct look. “I’ve been in my fair share of brawls, Gil. I know exactly what can happen to a hand when it connects with a face. Let me see.”

Feeling a bit like he was being called out on the carpet, Gil reluctantly raised his hand for Rupert’s inspection. “It’s nothing.”

“Your knuckles are swollen.” Rupert put the ice pack on Gil’s hand and held it there. “You need this more than I do at the moment.”

Gil winced slightly, both at the cold of the ice and the pain of his injury. His thoughts turned to the comment that nearly got Lilah killed. Curious and more than a little unnerved, he asked, “Could she really do that?”

Rupert answered absently, “Can who do what?”

“Lilah.” Gil’s eye twitched as he thought about the question. “Can she bring someone back from the dead?”

“I doubt it. Most likely, she has shamans on staff who would handle the actual resurrection.” Exasperated, he said tartly, “Be careful. You nearly dislodged the ice.”

“There are people who can resurrect the dead?”

Rupert looked up when he heard Gil’s strangled question. “Almost anything is possible with magic, though not generally advisable.” After a moment, he added, “Gil? Are you all right? You look pale.”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head. “I was just thinking it would be a great way to find out who murdered someone — ask the corpse.”

Looking down at Gil’s hand again, Rupert shook his head. “I’m sure you’re not serious, but in case you are, resurrection spells are bad news. The ones most likely to work require knowledge of the darkest magic as well as the power to pull it off. You really wouldn’t want to meet the magic user capable of performing that particular class of spell.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” When Rupert put a bandage over the worst of the scrapes on his knuckle, Gil continued, “You never did answer my question.”

Rupert released his hand, brushing over the injured knuckles with a light touch before he looked into Gil’s eyes. “Which question was that?”

“Did you really want to kiss me that day?”

After a long, measuring look, he answered, “That day, the next and each day since.”

Gil blinked, both at the answer and at the heat he was sure was rising up his face at the look on Rupert’s face. “Oh.”

Moving slowly to give Gil plenty of time to move away, Rupert leaned forward to give him a light kiss. The second kiss, delivered almost immediately after, was a bit firmer. Gil initiated the third kiss, a quiet whimper escaping as Rupert sucked on his lower lip.

Flushed and breathing fast, Gil said, “That was — nice.”

Rupert frowned. “Just nice? I think I can do better than that.” He tugged Gil toward him with a quick jerk, pulling him off balance even as he wrapped an arm around his waist and put his free hand on the back of Gil’s neck.

If the kiss was unexpected in intensity, Gil’s reaction was even more so. He spared a brief thought for the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced anything so acutely, and then he was lost to sensation as his hands started exploring Rupert of their own volition. Between the faint hint of whisky on Rupert’s breath to the feel of his muscles twitching in reaction to Gil’s questing fingers, the whole experience was almost too much for him to take in. It took a quick twist of Rupert’s hips against his own for Gil’s brain to finally go quiet and simply accept what was happening without trying to analyze it.

When Rupert ended the kiss half a lifetime later, he gave Gil a questioning look.

Gathering together the few brain cells that started to function again when Rupert moved away, Gil mumbled, “Definitely better than nice.”

*****

They were in the library when Gil ambushed Rupert with a kiss, surprising himself more than he surprised Rupert. After all, Gil Grissom simply didn’t do that sort of thing. Then again, he thought, skimming his fingers along Rupert’s arm, how often do I get a chance to be this relaxed?

Rupert moved away long enough to murmur, “You’re thinking loudly enough for me to hear.”

Gil cocked his head at that. “Literally?”

“Figuratively.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Gil moved both hands up to Rupert’s face and tried to lose himself in the moment, but when Rupert tried to pull him into an embrace, Gil broke off and stepped back.

Rupert blinked in confusion. “Is there some reason you’re attempting to seduce me at a distance?”

“I —” He broke off helplessly. When Rupert didn’t attempt to finish the sentence for him, Gil turned away.

Rupert touched his arm and turned him back. “Gil, I don’t understand. If you’re uncomfortable with me, please say something now. You needn’t worry about me being pushy.”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly. “I’m — I want this — you.”

“And yet?”

Gil sighed. “I just — I keep expecting Lilah to show up at the worst possible moment.”

“She wouldn’t —” Rupert blinked. “Oh hell. She would.” He took a step forward, sighing in exasperation when Gil moved away again. Rupert reached out and gently ran his fingers down Gil’s face before cupping his cheek. “I swear I’ll kill her if she shows up at the wrong moment. As long as you let me, that is.”

Nodding earnestly and stepping toward Rupert, Gil promised, “I will. I’ll even help dispose of the body.”

*****

Gil stood with his back against the wall, one leg holding him up — barely — the other trying to wrap itself around Rupert’s legs using improbable geometry in defiance of his age and lack of flexibility. For some unknown reason, kissing Rupert inevitably made his body think it was seventeen again.

His hips pushed forward of their own accord, eliciting a groan from Rupert, and Gil couldn’t stop from grinding into the other man’s groin. At that point, he would have done anything to relieve some of the ache of want and need that had been steadily growing over two days of stolen kisses and caresses. He’d taken to sleeping on the couch, unwilling to trust himself at night and wondering why the hell he’d ever thought taking their time with this was a good idea.

Rupert did that thing with his tongue and —”Christ!” Gil’s leg, the one holding him upright, started to tremble.

“Like that, do you?” If Rupert hadn’t sounded just as breathless and needy when he asked, Gil might well have slugged him.

“Bed —” Gil swallowed hard. “Bed. Now.”

“You were —” Rupert licked a spot on Gil’s neck. “The one —” He bit down gently. “Who wanted to go slowly, so my answer has to be ‘no,’ I’m afraid.” He bit down harder this time then licked away the pain before gently disengaging from Gil’s embrace.

Gil bit back a whimper as Rupert walked away without a second glance. Gil’s only consolation was that Rupert wasn’t walking easily.

*****

Rupert awoke to fingers teasing his nipple and doing a rather marvelous job of it. For a few moments, he ignored the troublesome question of why he was the beneficiary of such lovely attention and instead relaxed into his pillow so he could become wholly absorbed in the pleasure of it. “Mm. Bloody wonderful.”

“Nice to know you like it so much,” came the soft-voiced response.

Blinking several times, Rupert tried to convince his eyes to focus in the soft light of dawn. “You’re up a bit early, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t slept all night.” On his side, propped up by his elbow, Gil moved his hand to the center of Rupert’s chest, gently scraping his fingers through the graying hair.

He frowned at that. “Why not?”

Gil leaned down to kiss Rupert. It started out chastely, but then Gil pressed himself into Rupert’s hip, and Rupert lost any vestige of interest he might have had in letting Gil control the encounter. Just as Rupert shifted to reach up so he could bring him closer, Gil pulled back and said, “I don’t want to wait any longer.”

It was on the tip of Rupert’s tongue to point out that if Gil didn’t want to wait, he shouldn’t have pulled away like that. That impulse was derailed by a rather maddening suggestion from his conscience, which forced him to say instead, “You’re certain?”

Gil concentrated on teasing Rupert’s left nipple before looking at him again. “A friend of mine lives by the motto, ‘no regrets.’”

“As such things go, it seems reasonable enough.” Rupert moved his hand along Gil’s jaw, curling his fingers into the hair behind his ear and taking a vague, possessive pleasure in the way Gil leaned into his touch. It was another moment before he could remember the thread of the conversation. “Is there a reason it’s important to you now?”

“Over the last year, I’ve had reason to regret a number of things I’ve done and decisions I’ve made.” He pursed his lips then took a deep breath. “I don’t want to regret something I didn’t do.”

The light was still a little too dim for Rupert to get a good look at Gil’s face, and Rupert very much wanted to look the other man in the eye during this conversation. At the same time, though, he realized it wouldn’t do him any good. Gil had proven himself to be a master at hiding his thoughts and feelings behind a bland mask as the need arose, and Rupert strongly suspected that an intimate conversation fell under that heading.

Rupert asked cautiously, “Am I to be your summer fling, or is it more than that?”

Shaking his head, he said quickly, “It’s not a fling, but — but I don’t love you.”

Amused by Gil’s disclaimer and the faint look of panic on his face, Rupert dropped his hand and said flatly, “You despicable villain. You only want me for my body.”

A bit abashed, Gil mumbled, “It sounded better in my head.”

“I suspect it did.” Rupert reached up again, this time putting his hand on Gil’s shoulder. “In any case, please don’t worry about it. I’d be surprised and more than a little terrified if you had declared undying love for me.” After a beat, he added, “For the record, I don’t love you either.”

“So I guess this is an itch to be scratched?”

“Not by a long shot,” Rupert answered. “If I wanted to scratch an itch, I’d take care of it myself.”

“Oh.”

Rupert’s lips twitched into a gentle smile while Gil processed his comment. “I’ve grown fond of you over the last few days, Gil. You’re easy on the eyes, and you know Pink Floyd’s music almost as well as I do. I’m deeply attracted to your intelligence and sense of humor, which is lovely, because they’re just enough to make up for your tendency to make appalling puns.”

One of Gil’s eyebrows went up. “Only just enough? What would have happened if they hadn’t been?”

“I’d’ve chucked you outside on the second day and left you to fend for yourself,” he said, just before moving his hand to Gil’s neck to pull him down to reacquaint himself with the shape of his mouth. It wasn’t a particularly exciting mouth to look at, and some of the puns that emerged from it were enough to make Rupert want to slap duct tape over it. Yet when it came down to basics, just lips on lips, Gil’s mouth became irresistible.

He grumbled when Gil pulled away and —”Christ,” Rupert muttered as Gil latched onto his neck and bit down hard. “You’re sure you’re not a vampire?”

Breathing hard, Gil let go and propped himself on his elbow again. “Positive.”

Rupert asked quietly, “And you’re certain you don’t want to wait any longer?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“You’re equally certain you don’t want —”

Gil shut him up with a kiss. When Rupert pulled back to attempt to ask another question, Gil upped the ante by cupping the outline of Rupert’s cock and giving it a quick squeeze. “I’ve developed the hypothesis. It’s time to start the experiment. Clem said there were supplies in the nightstand, right?”

Rupert answered with a strangled, “Yes,” just before he rolled to push Gil onto his back. Grinning at his surprise, Rupert said, “Do all scientists try to skip the preliminary stages, or are you the only one who tries to jump right in?” To emphasize his point, Rupert reached into Gil’s pajama bottoms and ran his thumb around the tip of Gil’s cock.

“I thought we were done with the foreplay,” Gil managed to gasp out, even as he arched into Rupert’s maddeningly light touch.

“Good heavens, no,” he answered in his most proper, upper crust accent. Rupert leaned down to lick Gil’s nipple into hardness, enjoying the immediate response. He caught the nub in his teeth and pulled up just as he squeezed the base of Gil’s cock — and god, how long had it been since he’d done that to another man? Too long, he decided, as Gil arched up into his grip.

“Fuck!”

“Would you really want to miss out on this?” Rupert skimmed his hand along Gil’s cock before starting a long, slow squeeze upward. He deliberately kept his grip too loose to provide immediate relief — there was no sense in ending this too soon — and was gratified by Gil’s muttered curse.

“It’s been a long time for me. Keep that up, and it won’t take much to make me come,” Gil warned, reaching for Rupert’s hand to remove it.

Rupert raised an eyebrow at that. “Really? I think I’d like to see for myself.”

“What?”

Ignoring Gil’s demands for an answer, Rupert shoved the linens to the foot of the bed then grasped the waistband of Gil’s pajama bottoms with both hands. “Did I ever tell you what my nickname was in London?”

Gil frowned. “No. What does that — Jesus!”

A wicked smile graced Rupert’s face as he tore the lightweight fabric. “Ethan and the others used to call me Ripper.”

“Let me guess why,” came the breathless rejoinder. And then, “What are you doing?”

His face hovering over Gil’s cock, Rupert answered, “I told you — I’m seeing how long you can hold out.”

“Without a condom?”

Rupert rolled his eyes at that and dipped down to slide the tip of Gil’s cock into his mouth. Gil’s scent was nearly enough to drive Rupert to distraction. He’d forgotten how that particular aroma tended to go to his head, and it took a moment to focus once again on the task at hand, namely making one Gilbert Grissom lose a bit of control. Or perhaps all control.

As he teased Gil with his lips and tongue, Rupert gripped the base of Gil’s cock, moving his hand with short, firm strokes in counterpoint to the licks and light sucking that were, happily, driving Gil a bit around the bend. With his free hand, Rupert gently grasped Gil’s heavy testicles, running his thumb lightly over the few wiry hairs that adorned them. The gentle irritation was enough to make Gil gasp and jerk away, and that particular reaction was enough to make Rupert do it again.

When Gil’s cursing reached a crescendo of incoherent ramblings that sounded vaguely like begging, Rupert finally took mercy on him and started to suck him off properly. For the most part, he allowed his hand to keep him from taking Gil in too deeply, but at irregular intervals, he would take in the whole of Gil’s cock. The third time he did so, he swallowed around the tip then moved back quickly when Gil thrust hard in response and shouted a warning.

Lifting his head to watch Gil’s face, even as he sped up the movement of his hand, Rupert was entranced by the sight before him. He hadn’t imagined Gil could get so completely lost in the moment of orgasm, and he felt a sharp burst of pride that he’d been responsible for it. When Gil’s hips finally stilled and his cock began to soften, Rupert pushed himself up the bed and half draped himself on Gil. “You get the most incredible expression on your face when you come,” Rupert said, dropping his head to steal a kiss or three.

Dazed and still breathing heavily, it took Gil a moment to collect his wits long enough to respond drowsily, “I can’t believe you did that to me — that I came so damn fast.”

“Abstinence can be a rather powerful motivator.” Rupert trailed his hand down Gil’s torso, stopping when he touched Gil’s ejaculate. He briefly considered licking it up, but given the other man’s reaction to fellatio without a condom, he didn’t think Gil would approve. Instead, Rupert leaned back to grab a tissue from the stand and cleaned him up.

“Gil —” Rupert blinked as he heard a light snore and shook his head, biting his lip as wholly inappropriate giggles threatened to rise up. He didn’t have it in him to be upset, given how often he himself had dropped off on his partners over the years.

Moving cautiously, Rupert took the time to fully remove the remains of Gil’s pajamas then stood up to take off his own. Before he returned to Gil’s side, he brought the sheets back up from the foot of the bed. He lay back down next to Gil, dozing off more readily than he would have thought possible, given his own lack of release.

*****

With no particular problem to solve or agenda to follow, Gil was in a drowsy state of mental freefall as he lay against Rupert’s side, his head resting on a very comfortable shoulder. Though they were both awake, if not alert, neither had made an effort to start a conversation. For Gil’s part, he was happy to be with someone who didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

Instead, he let his mind drift. No sooner would one thought occur to him than another would take its place. In some sort of random connection that made sense only at the deepest levels of his mind, the memory of Catherine’s face when she announced she was pregnant was supplanted by the memory of his mother telling him she would take him to see Roy Rogers. His Uncle Hugh had been with them that day, and for four-year-old Gilly Grissom, a once and future cowboy, the day had been as perfect as such things could be for a small boy.

His thoughts shifted back to the lab and to the case he’d been working before being brought to this place, and he finally understood how Vinnie Jenks managed to pull off an ingenuous theft. At some point, he might get out of bed to write out the solution. For now, however, he was content to remain where he was, enjoying a mental space he’d only rarely achieved before. On those occasions when he did manage to reach it, he tended to go with the flow. After all, it wasn’t often that a man could reach this level of clarity without the benefit of chemical agents.

As he meandered through memories and half-formed theories, Rupert’s warm, solid presence became enough of an intrusion to anchor him in the present. On one level, he analyzed the rather amazing blowjob Rupert had given him, feeling faintly abashed over having fallen asleep immediately after coming. He wasn’t fond of gender-based clich�s, especially when he proved the rule.

On another level, he thought about how neatly Rupert had managed to derail his efforts to observe what was happening as it was happening. All things considered, he felt he should do something spectacularly nice for the man as a way of saying thanks. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been able to just experience something without taking endless mental notes.

Then there was the base level, the one Gil didn’t normally acknowledge existed. That was the level at which he plotted revenge against Rupert for spending so. much. damn. time. teasing. It wasn’t fair that Rupert could do that to him on just two week’s acquaintance, and he had the vague notion that he was somehow letting down the home team by not returning the favor and shutting off Rupert’s brain. He was positive that Rupert needed to lose himself as much as — if not more than — he himself had earlier.

Gil was marshalling his brain cells to work together to come up with a plan of action when he heard a soft knock on the door. He shifted to move, but Rupert’s arm tightened around him as he called out, “Yes?”

With his head still on Rupert’s shoulder, Gil was facing away from the door, so he didn’t see Clem, though he heard him stutter, “Oh gee. I’m sorry, Mr. Giles. I didn’t think —”

“That’s quite all right, Clem.” Rupert ran a lazy hand up Gil’s spine, and damn if it wasn’t enough to make his dick twitch in response. “Did you need something?”

“Uh, breakfast? It’s ready?” Gil wondered if Rupert would be able to maintain that serene fa�ade if he was getting a hand job. It was mean, yes, but the man had it coming to him. Moving slowly, he dragged his hand down Rupert’s stomach and smiled faintly at the twitching muscles. Before he could reach his goal, however, Rupert clamped down on Gil’s wandering hand, squeezing it tightly.

“We’ll be in the shower. Perhaps you could freshen the bed while we’re getting cleaned up?”

“Huh? Oh! Oh!! Yeah! Okay!” Gil got a mental image of Clem’s face, and it was all he could do not to start laughing.

“And then you could bring breakfast up?” Rupert squeezed Gil’s ass — possibly as a warning, possibly as a promise. Either way, Gil enjoyed it, and he pressed himself against Rupert’s hip to prove it.

“Sure thing, Mr. Giles!”

There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence before Rupert added, “Unless you’d like to help us get out of bed, you may wish to leave the room for a few minutes.”

Clem made an inarticulate noise, and when Gil heard the door slam shut, he looked up at Rupert. “We’re taking a shower?”

“I thought freshening up would be nice.” Rupert’s lips twisted into something just short of a smirk. “If nothing else, perhaps a shower will wake you up.”

His face warm with embarrassment, Gil closed his eyes. “Sorry about that.”

“Yes, well.” Rupert let go of Gil and pushed himself into a seated position, ignoring Gil’s scowl over being forced to move. “Perhaps you can show me just how sorry you are.”

“Perhaps. If I’m up for it.” Gil blinked sleepily at him.

Rupert responded by getting out of bed. “Kindly remember that your ‘innocent’ look no longer works on me.”

“It doesn’t?” Gil took a moment to do a full body stretch. “That’s a shame.”

“The real shame is that you haven’t yet put your mouth to better use than making puns.” With that, Rupert stripped the top sheet from the bed, leaving Gil sprawled and naked in the middle of the bed. “You look completely debauched.”

Gil grinned and stuck his tongue out for a moment. “I feel completely debauched.”

Shaking his head, Rupert turned and went into the bathroom, leaving Gil to follow at his own pace. He lay there for a few moments and considered staying in bed for a little longer, but a soft scratching at the door convinced him otherwise. Gil pushed himself to the edge of the bed and got up. Just as he reached the bathroom, he called out, “You can come in, Clem!”

The bathroom door had only just closed when Rupert pinned Gil to it and gave him a thorough, minty-fresh kiss. As Gil accepted the invasion of Rupert’s tongue and tried to launch his own in response, he supposed that a man who had faced down demons and hellgods and nine apocalypses wouldn’t worry overly much about morning mouth. When Rupert reached down and gave Gil’s dick a friendly squeeze, Gil stopped thinking entirely.

An endless amount of time later, Rupert backed away. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you woke up.”

Left breathless and needy and unsatisfied by the kiss, Gil managed to answer, “You should have said something earlier.”

“If I had, Clem would have interrupted us at a bad moment.” Rupert moved away and checked the temperature in the shower. Gil thought it was a measure of just how much Rupert affected him that he hadn’t even noticed the water was running. As Rupert stepped into the shower — a roomy, decadent affair with more than enough room for two — he asked, “Joining me?”

“I thought it might be nice to brush my teeth.” At Rupert’s perplexed look, Gil suggested, “At least let me use some mouthwash.”

“If you insist,” grumbled Rupert.

Less than a minute later, his mouth fresh if not scrubbed, he joined Rupert in the hot spray, latching onto him from behind and dropping a kiss on Rupert’s shoulder. Before he could do more, though, Rupert managed to turn them both around so that Gil was embraced from behind.

As Rupert ran a soap-filled washcloth up and down Gil’s torso, he asked quietly, “How far do you want to go, Gil?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to fuck you, or is that a bit much this early on?”

Gil tried to focus on providing an answer, but Rupert had punctuated his question with a pelvic thrust followed by a quick nibble on Gil’s left ear. And to make concentration even more difficult, Rupert had moved the washcloth to Gil’s dick, giving it a slow, sensual cleaning. “Guh.”

Rupert laughed softly. “I do hope that translates as, ‘Yes, Rupert. Please fuck me into next week.’”

His head tilted back to rest on Rupert’s shoulder, Gil muttered, “As long as you keep doing that thing with your mouth, it works for me.”

“I can do lots of things with my mouth.” Rupert demonstrated his point on Gil’s neck. “Which thing were you talking about?”

“That —” Gil gasped as Rupert did it again. “That’s good. That thing. Just now.”

“Hm. I think I can manage that.” Rupert reached between them and ran a soap-slick finger up Gil’s crack. “And have any of your partners ever breached this particular opening of yours?”

Gil went stiffer as Rupert nudged a fingertip through the tight ring of muscle. “No,” he stammered, torn between backing up and moving forward. “None of the women I’ve been with ever —” His speech broke up when Rupert pushed his finger in up to the first knuckle.

“Clearly, you’ve been dating the wrong women.” Wriggling his finger slightly, Rupert asked, “What do you think? A bit more?”

“God yes!” A small part of Gil’s brain registered the sensation of Rupert’s finger as a slow burning itch, and then all thought was swept away as the finger went just a bit deeper. Incoherent, Gil braced himself against the shower wall as Rupert held him steady and continued to frig him gently. He complained when the finger disappeared, and when it returned, joined by a second digit, he pushed back suddenly with a gasped, “Fuck!”

“That’s the general idea,” came the amused rejoinder, and it was enough to remind Gil that really, it was Rupert’s turn to lose coherence.

Gil pulled away from Rupert’s fingers and turned within his loose embrace. Before Rupert could ask what was wrong, Gil dropped carefully to his knees and took Rupert’s dick in his mouth. He chuffed his pleasure at Rupert’s muttered, “Christ!” and set about teaching himself to give a blowjob.

*****

“You’re certain you’re all right?”

Sitting hunched over on the shower bench and feeling miserable and embarrassed, Gil nodded. He was unwilling to trust his voice just yet and continued to wipe his face of tears, snot and water.

Rupert stood over him, a steadying hand on Gil’s shoulder. “If I’d known you were going to try —”

His voice a little raspy, Gil interrupted with, “Not your fault.”

“But still —”

“No. Really.” Gil opened his mouth to let some of the water from the shower stream in. When he had enough, he did a quick gargle and spit, figuring the mood had been killed as soon as he choked on Rupert’s dick. It was almost enough to make him wish that one really could die of shame.

Rupert moved to sit next to Gil, nudging him over a bit with his hip. “If it’s any comfort, I nearly did the same thing my first time — gagged, that is.”

“Nearly.” Gil cleared his throat and tried again. “But you didn’t actually gag.”

“Well. No.” Rupert gave him a look of commiseration. “I have, however, had other equally horrifying moments during sex, so it’s not as if I’ve no idea what you’re feeling right now.”

With one eyebrow raised, Gil asked, “You mean the part where you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole?” At least his voice was starting to sound better.

Rupert pursed his lips. “Not exactly. Mystical forces being what they are, wishing isn’t — well. Never mind. The point is, there have been times when I’ve wanted nothing more than to gather the tattered remains of my dignity and disappear as quickly as possible.”

“Yeah.” Gil sighed and hung his head down. “Not much chance of that here.” Of course, there was always the beach. Maybe he could sleep there for the next week or so.

“No.” Rupert moved his hand to Gil’s neck and squeezed it lightly. “Even if there were, I wouldn’t let you run.”

Gil’s answer came on the heels of a laugh that sounded a touch too bitter for his own comfort. “Right.”

With a lingering hint of bile still at the back of his throat, Gil averted his face when Rupert leaned in close to say, “We’re going to finish showering, and then we’re going into the other room to have breakfast.” Rupert nibbled on Gil’s ear and breathed, “And after that, we’re going to pick up where we left off a few minutes ago. Agreed?”

Gil turned to Rupert with a smart answer on the tip of his tongue and instead had to swallow hard at the look in the other man’s eyes. Whatever embarrassment he felt from his earlier failure disappeared in the face of that much — focus? lust? — whatever. His mouth dry, Gil nodded slightly and said, “Okay.”

*****

Clem returned with the breakfast tray just as Rupert and Gil, freshly bathed and robed, emerged from the bathroom. “Hey guys! Look what W and H sent up this morning. There’s lots of fresh fruit today. And bagels — with lox, even. Are either of you Jewish?”

Rupert was too busy feeling up Gil’s ass to pay very much attention to the question before them. As it was, he only barely noticed Gil’s strangled, “No. We’re not. Was there anything else?”

“No. Not really.” Clem smiled happily and went to the large window. “It’s a beautiful day, though. Maybe you guys could —” When he turned back to the pair, Rupert caught his eye then turned to very deliberately kiss Gil. “Or not.” Clem stumbled in his haste to get to the door. “I’ll, uh — yeah.”

“I thought he’d never leave.” Rupert tugged on the bow holding Gil’s robe closed and reached down to find that yes, Gil was over his earlier upset if his erection was anything to go by.

Gil grunted in response, his hips thrusting lazily into Rupert’s grip. “What were we going to do today?”

Just as he was about to answer with the fairly lewd and bawdy agenda he’d come up with, Rupert was interrupted by a loud growl from Gil’s stomach. “I believe we were going to —” His own stomach rumbled in reply. “Get something to eat.”

His lips twitching, Gil gave Rupert a sideways glance. “No. That’s what I was trying to do about fifteen minutes ago.”

“True.” Rupert nuzzled Gil’s neck for a moment, enjoying his earthy scent. It was a nice change from the perfumes and powders favored by women. “But your meal was interrupted.”

Gil leaned his head against Rupert’s shoulder. “Are you sure it’s not possible to die of mortification?”

“Now, now. None of that.” Rupert lifted Gil’s chin and, looking into his eyes, realized that yes, there were still a few issues to be worked through. He bit back a sigh, believing that Gil would likely take it the wrong way. “All you need is a bit of practice is all. This morning, you tried to —”

Gil frowned when Rupert didn’t finish his sentence. “Tried to what?”

Rupert couldn’t help himself, even knowing how much of an idiot he sounded when he giggled. “I was going to say that this morning, you tried to bite off more than you could chew, but —”

“Oh god.” Gil shook his head. “I didn’t need that imagery.”

Still chuckling, Rupert agreed, “Neither did I, actually.” He settled down a bit and ran a comforting hand down Gil’s back as he thought about what to do next. No matter how confident Gil was under normal circumstances, this morning’s setback was enough to make any man shy away from trying again. It wasn’t until he caught sight of the breakfast tray that —”Coaching. That’s the thing. Wait here — I just need to pop down to the kitchen.”

*****

Gil sat on the bed, finishing off a bagel as he waited and trying to convince himself to let go of the lingering sense of failure that continued to prick at him. All he’d wanted was to give Rupert the same kind of pleasure he’d received that morning. Instead, an unsuspected competitive streak reared its ugly head, and Gil had forgotten that most basic anatomical trigger. If he hadn’t been so determined to take Rupert’s dick all the way into his mouth, he might well have —

“I could hear you berating yourself all the way downstairs. Stop that.” Rupert closed the door behind him and held up —

“Bananas?”

“Bananas.”

His eyes narrowed, Gil stared at the fruit for a long moment, failing entirely to see the point. One possibility suggested itself. “You think I’m suffering a potassium deficiency?”

Rupert stared at him for a long moment, and Gil felt his face growing warm as he suddenly realized the point of the bananas. Something must have shown on his face, because Rupert nodded once, saying, “Very good. A gold star to Mr. Grissom for noting the obvious.”

“I’m not — I don’t usually think of food that way.” Gil thought the look of pity Rupert aimed at him was a bit much. “Food is food. That’s all.”

“It’s also remarkably useful as a visual aid.” Rupert joined Gil on the bed and set the bananas between them. He pulled one from the bunch, and in defiance of their surroundings and the subject matter, managed to slip into lecture mode as he peeled the banana. “The thing to remember — aside from one’s gag reflex — is that fellatio is meant to mimic the act of intercourse.”

Gil breathed in sharply as Rupert slowly sucked the banana into his mouth before pushing it out. The act was pure pornography, and Gil’s dick reacted in a predictable fashion. It was a moment before he noticed that Rupert was waiting for a response. “Mimic. Right.”

Though Rupert’s face was set in austere lines, the look in his eyes told Gil that Rupert knew exactly the effect his little show had just had. “Beginners should always grip the base of the cock thusly —” Gil’s eyes were drawn to Rupert’s fist “— so as to prevent the member from intruding too far into the mouth.”

Utterly entranced by the sight of the banana disappearing once more into Rupert’s mouth, Gil absently dropped his hand to his dick. “Use hands. Got it.”

Rupert’s eyes darkened when he glanced down at Gil’s lap. “Once one is comfortable with the mechanics of drawing the cock into one’s mouth and releasing it slowly —” Gil fisted his dick to the slow, even rhythms of Rupert’s speech “— one may wish to add a bit of variety to the proceedings.”

Gil whimpered as Rupert slowly dragged his tongue up one side of the banana and down the other before closing his mouth around the tip of it again. The fruit was starting to look a bit bedraggled, but Rupert managed to keep it intact, even as he gave it another long, slow suck. When his mouth was free again, Rupert said, “Eventually, when one wishes to get right down to business, one will want to ensure that one’s hand and mouth are acting in concert.”

Slack-jawed and entranced, Gil managed to respond with, “Yeah.”

“Concentrate on the tip,” Rupert said, raising the banana to demonstrate.

The fruit lasted only a few seconds under Rupert’s assault, and when the tip broke off, Gil’s control snapped. He lunged at Rupert, intent on capturing at least some of the banana before Rupert swallowed. He was successful after a fashion, though Rupert made him work for it.

At the end of the kiss, Gil said breathlessly, “I think I have the theory now.”

“You’re sure you’re ready for the practicum?”

In response, he pushed Rupert back until he was lying on the bed. Gil opened the robe, his eyes drawn to Rupert’s dick. Grasping it gently at first, and then more firmly, Gil fisted it for a few moments before leaning down and — nothing. He hovered over Rupert’s dick, unable to force his face lower.

“You don’t have to, you know.”

“Yes, I do,” he snapped.

At that, Rupert sat up and moved away. “No, you don’t. And if you think that look of ill-concealed nausea on your face is in any way, shape or form seductive, you have another think coming.”

Shutting his eyes and bowing his head, Gil took a moment to regroup before looking at Rupert. “I apologize.”

“This isn’t a contest, Gil. I’m not judging you on how many activities you’re able to attempt and master.” Rupert held out his hand, and when Gil took it, he said, “This is supposed to be fun for the both of us.”

Gil shifted so that he was lying on his stomach next to Rupert. “I just wanted to make it up to you.”

“There’s nothing to make up.” Rupert moved back to a prone position and turned on his side to face Gil.

Following suit, Gil turned on his side as well. He knew he was being an ass, and he had a pretty good idea why. The problem was forcing himself to talk about it, because that much exposure — he laughed.

Rupert’s lips quirked into an answering smile. “I hope you’re planning to share the funny.”

Gil gave him a wry look. “I just realized I’ve been mostly naked for the last few hours, and I’m worried about exposing myself to you.”

After a moment’s thought, he answered, “Yes, I can see where that would be amusing. And true. Are you ready to talk about it?”

“It’s just —” Gil took a deep breath. “I’m not used to being insecure. It’s making me cranky.”

“You think?”

Gil rolled his eyes. “I can do without the sarcasm.”

“Are you willing to listen to a suggestion?” Rupert reached out and ran his hand along Gil’s arm and down his belly, making Gil remember just why he wanted to be in this position in the first place.

“I might even be willing to follow it, if you keep that up,” he answered in a gruff voice.

“You haven’t really taken the time to explore me since we got naked.” Rupert trailed his finger down to Gil’s pubic hair then dragged it back up. Gil caught Rupert’s hand and dragged it right back down to his dick.

“Your point?”

Rupert twisted his hand around so that he was now holding Gil’s wrist. “Touch me, Gil. Ask me about my scars — I know you’re curious.”

“In other words, do what I would do with any lover?”

“Something like that.”

Gil shook his head, exasperated with himself. “So much for thinking I have a brain.”

“This is different, is all, and your mind is just catching up to that fact.” Rupert tugged on Gil’s hand and brought it to his waist before letting go.

Taking the hint, Gil trailed his hand down to the barely healed mass of scar tissue on the left side of Rupert’s abdomen. The few times he’d seen it, he’d wanted to ask how it happened, but it hadn’t seemed to be the right thing to do. Now, however, he’d just been given carte blanche to satisfy his curiosity.

“Roll onto your back.” When Rupert complied, Gil moved the edge of Rupert’s robe out of the way and got his first close look at the injury. “What the hell were you gutted with?”

“A spear.”

Gil didn’t look up from his examination. “Did Glorificus do this to you?”

“No, we were on the run from her at the time.” Rupert shied away when Gil brushed his fingers along the ridges of the scar. “Don’t do that. It tickles.”

“How did it happen?”

“There was another faction working against Glory,” Rupert said matter-of-factly. “As it turned out, they were also acting against us. I received that particular injury during our fight with them.”

Gil frowned as he considered the position of the wound. “Did you lose your spleen?”

“Remarkably, no. It went in without hitting anything major.” Rupert reached down and touched the scar himself. “It wouldn’t look so bad, except that I tore the stitches out the next night and never got around to having them properly repaired.”

Without thinking, he asked, “What happened the next night?”

“We fought Glory, Buffy died, and the world was saved.”

Gil blinked at that. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” After a moment, Rupert added, “Before you start feeling guilty for reminding me, please keep in mind that if not for you, I would still be the miserable wretch I was a few days ago. And if you don’t come up here and kiss me, I may well turn into him again.”

The hint of whining in Rupert’s voice was enough to make Gil grin. “We can’t have that.”

*****

There was something about Gil — his composure, most certainly, but perhaps his erudition as well — which made Rupert want to reduce the man to a quivering mass of want and need. The fact that Gil was so very responsive made his task all the more easy.

Perhaps a little too easy, he realized, as Gil made a rather familiar strangled noise. Rupert grasped the base of his cock tightly enough to slow him down. “Not yet,” he whispered in Gil’s ear, biting down on his own lip to keep from smiling — very well, smirking — at Gil’s voiced displeasure.

After giving them both a few minutes to ease back from the brink, Rupert continued his taste test of one Gilbert Grissom, this time working his way along Gil’s chest. He dropped kisses, licks and nibbles in random fashion and absently noted which drew the greatest response and where. A casual swipe of his tongue around Gil’s left nipple had led to a grunt, whereas the same action on Gil’s right nipple had led to a muttered, “Please.”

The differing responses didn’t amuse Rupert nearly as much as how vocal Gil became given the right inducement — and Rupert fully intended to provide that inducement for as long and as often as possible. He looked up from his task. “‘Please,’ what, Gil?”

“Please, Rupert,” Gil said with a glare. “Please fuck me into the middle of next week.”

“We are in a state, aren’t we?” Rupert moved back up and kissed Gil before he could respond, taking the time to enjoy Gil’s kisses. During their first kiss, he had discovered to his everlasting glee that no matter what else Gil might lack experience in, he was damn good at kissing. Rupert reluctantly drew away from Gil’s mouth and whispered, “As it happens, I’m in a state myself.”

Gil’s muttered, “Finally,” was lost to yet another kiss. When Rupert backed away once more, Gil started to change positions then stopped. “How do you want me?”

“Every way possible.” Gil narrowed his eyes. Unable to resist, Rupert kissed Gil’s nose before answering, “On your side, facing away from me.”

Gil rolled his eyes then rolled onto his right side, asking, “Not on my knees?”

“I don’t know about you, but my knees are nearly shot these days.” Rupert grabbed the lubricant and a condom before settling in behind Gil.

“Hm. Good point.”

“And missionary is a position for the young and limber,” he added as he opened the condom packet, vaguely grateful that he remembered to do so before putting lubricant on his fingers.

“Another good point.”

Gil brought both knees up to his chest, causing Rupert to wonder if he should be worried that his partner chose to go into the fetal position just then. Rather than commenting, he tugged on Gil’s right leg so that it was straight and tucked Gil’s left leg up closer to the man’s chest. Rupert drizzled a bit of lubricant onto his fingers and ran them between Gil’s cheeks. As Gil tensed up slightly, he said, “Relax. You enjoyed this in the shower, and I promise you’ll enjoy it again.”

After a brief hesitation came the quiet admission, “It’s not your fingers I’m thinking about.” In another moment, he gasped as Rupert ran a finger along his perineum before stopping at his anus.

Rupert pushed his finger into the first knuckle, wiggling it a bit to loosen the tight ring of muscle. “At the moment, my fingers are all you need to consider.”

“Yes, but —”

He pushed his finger in a bit further, slowly and steadily increasing its movements. For the next few minutes, Rupert frigged Gil, taking care to keep a tight rein on his own enthusiasm. It was a difficult task, because every time Gil clenched around his finger, the motion was translated directly to Rupert’s cock.

*****

Gil’s concentration had narrowed completely to Rupert’s finger and the obscene things it was doing to him and his self-control. In a desperate attempt to maintain even the smallest bit of command over his reactions, Gil started calling up random facts about the human body, only to lose track of them whenever Rupert moved his finger just so. It was a maddening itch, just shy of a burn. Though enough to stimulate Gil, it was nowhere near enough to provide relief, and a century or three passed before Rupert finally withdrew his finger.

Drawing in breath both to complain and to beg for more, Gil stopped short when his brain conjured up Lilah’s voice just then. He heard Rupert bite out a fairly vicious-sounding phrase in Latin, which was followed by — something — something that made all of Gil’s hair stand on end. Confused, he looked back over his shoulder.

“What —?” He was interrupted by Rupert’s kiss, and his question disappeared entirely as Rupert penetrated him with not one, but two fingers.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Rupert said a short while later, disrupting for the moment Gil’s ability to focus on anything else as he began to shift his fingers more quickly.

A few months ago — when Gil still had a brain that functioned — he’d overheard a quiet conversation between Warrick and Greg. They were in the locker room, comparing notes about various conquests, and the phrase, “Thought I was gonna die,” had been bandied about. At the time, Gil chalked the comment up to youthful enthusiasm, ignoring the fact that neither Warrick nor Greg was all that much younger. Now, though, that conversation returned in snippets, and Gil sent a silent apology to the two men for doubting them.

When Rupert’s fingers twisted at just the right angle, Gil couldn’t help but push back hard against his hand. He thought he might have told Rupert, “More,” but he wasn’t sure, and at the moment, he didn’t particularly care. What Gil did care about was the sudden absence of Rupert’s fingers.

He muttered something about Rupert’s ancestry and was answered with, “Just a little bit more —” And Jesus, Mary and Joseph, three fingers were there, twisting slowly to loosen Gil’s still tight muscle. The itch was back, though at times it felt closer to a tickle, and under that itch was a slow burn that was spreading outward.

“Fuck!”

The fingers slowed down, but they didn’t stop moving entirely. “What’s wrong, Gil?”

“Not enough! It’s not enough!” Gil stopped giving a damn about what was right and proper and reached down to grab his dick. Before he could act to relieve his need, Rupert’s fingers left him with a faint pop, and Gil’s hand was suddenly trapped against his belly.

Gil whimpered.

“Shhh. I’ll take care of that for you,” Rupert said with more than a hint of urgency. “Keep your hand there for a moment.”

Gil whined.

But he kept his hand where Rupert left it, because glory of glories, if he wasn’t mistaken, Rupert was, at long last, putting a condom on. Another flurry of motion and then Rupert’s fingers were back, this time with more lubricant. Before Gil could move back against them, though, something else was nudging at Gil’s entrance.

Rupert reached around and took Gil’s dick in hand and began to jerk him off. In a voice tainted with as much want and need as Gil was feeling, Rupert said, “Try to relax.”

It was — oh hell. It was nothing like Gil imagined. Rupert’s dick was too big — way bigger than three fingers — and Gil was going to end up with a ruptured —”Rupert?” Gil winced at panic in his voice.

“Hush.” A soft kiss was dropped on Gil’s shoulder, but Rupert didn’t stop his achingly slow push inward. “You’ll be fine in a moment. Please trust me?”

It was the broken way Rupert asked for trust that Gil heard and responded to, because yes, he trusted Rupert. And he was a bit ashamed that he hadn’t made that perfectly clear before now. He tried to explain, but all that made it out of his mouth was, “Do — do trust.”

*****

Rupert bit down on his lip as he fought against his inclination to pound into Gil at the man’s mumbled assurance. Trust was a precious commodity in Rupert’s world, and to have it affirmed at such a time as this was almost more than his self-restraint could take.

“You feel so bloody good,” he bit out, pushing in just a little more. Rupert’s ability to issue further compliments was shattered when Gil’s ring of muscle, clenched for so very long, began to spasm around his cock. He bit down hard on Gil’s shoulder and thrust in for that final inch.

They both went still as soon as Rupert was balls-deep in Gil’s ass, each working to retain control as the morning silence was broken by their harsh breathing. When Rupert realized he could speak again, he told Gil, “I want you to bear down. It will make it easier for you.”

Gil nodded, his unquestioning faith an unexpected balm to Rupert’s soul, and did as he was told.

*****

It was all Gil could do not to —”Sweet Jesus!” Bearing down helped a hell of a lot. Instead of fighting against the intrusion, Gil suddenly found himself aiding and abetting it with uncertain and uneven movements.

“That’s right,” Rupert breathed into his ear. “You’re getting the idea.”

Encouraged, Gil started moving with more assurance, and Mary, Mother of God, was Rupert jerking him off in time to his thrusts? He was, and God in Heaven, it felt good. Relief was on the way in the form of a hand that knew what it was doing.

Gil’s hips sped up as he tried to capture both sensations — being fucked and fucking Rupert’s hand — at the same time. A very small part of his brain pointed out that it was a lost cause, but it was a hell of a lot of fun trying.

Soon.

Just a little bit more pressure and friction was needed.

And if Rupert tried to stop his climax one more time, Gil would kill him.

*****

Rupert heard that tell-tale noise emerge from the back of Gil’s throat, and he started speeding up his hand to help Gil finish. Those noises, those wonderful noises coming from Gil’s throat grew demanding, and Rupert was happy to oblige.

Gil went rigid just then, and Rupert, thinking he would milk Gil’s climax, was taken utterly by surprise when his own orgasm hit.

*****

Gil emerged from his post-coital nap feeling smug. It wasn’t an emotion he gave into very often, but in this case, smug was absolutely appropriate. It wasn’t just that the sex had been good — and given how completely clueless he’d been about sex with a man, it had been good — it was also that for the first time in his life, he finally got it. He understood what it was to lose himself to the moment and, paradoxically —

“You awake?”

The question was mumbled, and Gil wasn’t entirely sure Rupert himself was awake when he asked it. He shifted back around until he was facing him and smiled.

“I am. Are you?”

His eyes still closed, Rupert answered, “Of course I am. Can’t you tell?”

“At the moment, no.” As Gil lay there, a twinge of self-consciousness started to make itself known. The things he’d done and —

“Hm.” Rupert opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. He cupped Gil’s cheek. “Any regrets?”

Caught by surprise, Gil answered with the truth. “Just embarrassment. The things I said, the way I acted —”

“You mean the bits where you made it clear what you wanted?”

Gil opened his mouth to answer but stopped himself at the look of pure amusement on Rupert’s face. “Fine. I get your point.”

“Which is?”

“That maybe I’m a little too secretive and withholding when it comes to my life. That I need to loosen up and share more. That it’s okay to let people get —” He broke off when he noticed Rupert’s confusion. “That wasn’t your point?”

“No, not really,” Rupert answered, his lips twitching in suppressed mirth. “It was more along the lines of sharing information during sex is a good thing.”

“And now I’m even more embarrassed.” Gil closed his eyes and groaned. He knew better than to jump to conclusions, especially when it came to dealing with people in a social situation.

“Please don’t be.” Rupert ran his fingers down Gil’s chest, stopping at the nipple to do that thing that —

“Not much chance if you keep doing that,” he said breathlessly. And no, his dick was not getting hard again. Twice in a morning was a blessing. A third time was impossible.

“Good. Now that I’ve neatly distracted you, I —” Rupert bit his lip, looking more uncertain than Gil had ever seen him. “You’re sure you’re all right with this?”

Gil thought about the question then turned it over and considered it again. “I’m sore in places that I didn’t know existed, but other than that, I’m good.”

“It’s just — right when — that is, you —” Rupert took a deep breath. “Sorry. It suddenly occurred to me that you might have been trying to stop, and I ignored you.”

“I wasn’t, believe me. If I’d really wanted you to stop, I’d’ve gotten out of bed.” Gil considered his next words very carefully then decided to hell with it. If he couldn’t trust a lover, even a temporary one, with his thoughts, there was absolutely no hope for him. Ever. “It was like you said earlier — my mind was catching up to all the differences.”

“Then I didn’t —”

“You didn’t.” Though Gil couldn’t imagine telling Rupert that he looked — well — adorable at the moment, he thought he could get his point across another way and leaned forward to kiss Rupert.

When they drew apart, Rupert breathed deeply and started playing with Gil’s nipple again. “That’s a relief. I was worried that I’d put you off it entirely.”

“No, not much chance of that,” he said with feeling.

“Oh?”

Gil stared at Rupert for a long moment before answering. “This — you and I — it cleared up a few things for me.” At Rupert’s encouraging expression, he continued, “I haven’t had a lot of luck dating.”

“I’m not sure I —”

“Women. I haven’t had a lot of luck dating them. I like them, and I enjoy their company, but —” Gil swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “I’ve never lost myself with a woman the way I did with you.”

“Gil —”

He laughed at the look of dismay that crossed Rupert’s face. “Don’t worry — I’m not swearing undying love here.”

“Thank god,” was Rupert’s fervent reply.

“I’m just saying that you opened my eyes to the possibilities out there.” Gil smiled serenely. “Thanks to you, now I can look for love in all the right places.”

He didn’t expect Rupert to hit him with a pillow, though maybe he should have. Either way, a pillow fight seemed to be a good thing to have right now, if only to dispel the last of their anxieties. It was a pity he could only get in one good return hit before there was a knock on the door.

“Mr. Giles?”

Rupert held up his hand to forestall Gil’s next attack and called out, “Just leave our lunch outside the door, Clem.”

“Um. Okay.” After a moment, “But that wasn’t really why I came up here.”

Gil frowned as Rupert asked, “Then why did you?”

“It’s about Miss Morgan?” Clem’s voice trailed off in misery while Rupert —

“I forgot about that,” Rupert muttered, suddenly looking quite sour. “All right, Clem. Tell Miss Morgan I’ll be down to free her after I’ve had a shower.”

As Rupert moved off the bed, Gil followed and asked, “Free her? I don’t understand.”

“Lilah chose a rather inopportune moment to walk in on us,” was the casual response.

Gil stopped midway between the bed and the bathroom, remembering that moment when he thought he’d heard her. Rupert had said — what had he said? Something in Latin. His brain kicked out a rough translation, and it was enough to get his feet moving again. Gil entered the bathroom just as Rupert stepped into the shower.

“You used magic on her!” Gil wasn’t sure why he was so upset, only that he was. Maybe it was the sense that using magic was somehow cheating.

Seemingly unconcerned by Gil’s reaction, Rupert responded without a hint of apology in his voice. “It’s not as if she didn’t know what she was walking in on.”

“How could she have known?”

“Damn. Hand me my washcloth, would you?” After a moment’s hesitation, Gil did as he was asked, and Rupert continued, “She had to have known — one look at Clem’s blushing skin flaps would have told her something was up.”

Gil found he was more than willing to be convinced. “You think so?”

“I’m sure of it,” Rupert answered as he lathered up. “She got away with interrupting us once. I had no intention of allowing her to do so again. With any luck, this is the only lesson she’ll need.”

*****

“Hello, Lilah. Enjoying the scenery?” Rupert was full of good cheer as he stood in front of her. The day was, as usual, picture perfect, and the plants on the lanai were in full bloom. Whatever else Lilah might complain about, she couldn’t take issue with where he’d left her for the last two or three hours. “You were right, you know. This is an absolutely lovely spot for a getaway. Wolfram and Hart is to be congratulated.”

Lilah didn’t attempt to speak past the gag in her mouth. Instead, she glared.

“Rupert, you were going to free her?”

“Not a chance of that, I’m afraid.” At Gil’s frown, he added, “Lilah sold her soul to Wolfram and Hart. And since I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if it turned out to be an eternal contract, Lilah will never be free, will you, my dear?”

She responded with icy, rigid silence.

“I didn’t think so.”

“I was referring to her physical restraints,” Gil explained delicately.

“Ah yes. Those.” Still, Rupert didn’t do anything to remove her bonds. Instead, he gave her his best stern look — the one he’d honed on Xander over the years — and said, “It’s no use giving me that look. You started this particular game, and I ended it. No harm, no foul. Agreed?”

Rupert watched her clench her jaw for a long moment, and then she relaxed, giving him a short, sharp nod. “Very well.”

She stood carefully after the ropes disappeared. Looking out at the ocean, she said, “Congratulations. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Didn’t think I had what in me?” Rupert spoke softly, ready to slip into anger should the conversation call for it.

“I didn’t think you’d use magic on me.” She stretched slowly and turned to give Rupert a wry, measuring look that was free of her usual ironic detachment. “You surprised me, which doesn’t happen very often.”

At that moment, Rupert realized just how very charming Lilah could be when she set her mind to it. If he’d arrived here alone, there was every chance she could have undermined his defenses and convinced him to hire in. Rather than give in to the shudder that seemed to want to make its way along his body, Rupert nodded his head to her. “Thank you for the compliment.”

She turned to face the house again. “Right. If you hadn’t already guessed, I have one more offer to make. And if you don’t mind,” she said, touching the scarf that covered her throat, “I’d rather you stay on the opposite end of the room when I make it.”

“Of course.” Rupert gestured for her to go in first then indicated that Gil should follow her. Once they were inside, he leaned against the French doors. “What’s the offer?”

Lilah gave Rupert a nervous look, and he tamped down his irritation with her. All things considered, she had every reason to want to avoid him.

“Ethan Rayne. The general in charge of the lab owes Wolfram and Hart a favor.”

Rupert held himself very still as he absorbed the information. He wasn’t particularly taken aback by the offer. After the complete cock-up over Jenny, he’d spent a bit of time wondering what else they could dangle before him, and Ethan’s name, not surprisingly, turned up at the top of the list. It was his own fault, really, for not having checked on Ethan after they discovered just how appalling the Initiative was, but that was water under the bridge now. And if Ethan was, in fact, still being held — well. Rupert had no intention of selling his soul to purchase Ethan’s freedom.

No. Rupert wasn’t upset by the offer. However, he was curious about the look in Lilah’s eyes when she made it. There was the expected wince, yes, but there was also a gleam of — expectation. She expected him to turn them down again, and unless he was mistaken, she was looking forward to it.

Rather than answer immediately, he asked, “What makes you think Ethan is a good offer?”

Lilah’s gaze shuttered itself, and she answered coolly, “Wolfram and Hart’s research is excellent. My supervisor swears by it.”

There it was — just a hint around her mouth, yes, but it was there. Lilah, for whatever reason, had no desire for Rupert to join Wolfram and Hart. As he thought about it, Rupert realized that she’d been playing a very subtle game all along. She’d certainly acted in the way her employers told her to, but at the same time, she’d added twists that were virtually guaranteed to turn him away from Wolfram and Hart, even if he’d been inclined to accept in the first place.

As convinced as Rupert was that he’d found the answer, he still wanted one more piece of verification. He frowned thoughtfully as he considered his exact wording. “You know, Lilah, that’s the first tempting offer you’ve made to me.”

If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he would have missed the alarm that flashed in her eyes before she put her public mask back in place. Lilah gave him a knowing smile. “Really? I think it’s wonderful that we’ve come to an understanding.”

“No, we haven’t.” Rupert stepped forward, rolling his eyes when she took another step backward. “Stop that. I’m not going to go for your throat again. Nor am I going to accept your offer. Ethan is exactly where he needs to be, and good riddance to him.”

Lilah’s relief was almost palpable. Still, she tried to carry on the farce. “Really? Our research —”

“To hell with your research.” Rupert looked at her with a certain amount of respect — the first he’d shown her. “You knew perfectly well I wouldn’t go for any of this, didn’t you?”

“I have no —”

“Enough, Lilah. Your secret is safe with me. Tell your masters I’m not interested.” Rupert looked at Gil. “I’m in the mood for a game of pool. Care to join me?”

*****

Inside the game room, Gil turned to Rupert. “What the hell was that all about?”

“This isn’t really a good place to discuss it.” When Gil looked as if he was about to press the issue, Rupert decided to distract him. He pulled Gil toward him with a sudden move and kissed him.

When they pulled apart to draw breath, Gil tried again. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not something to discuss right now. When we return to your lab, we can talk about it, but not here, all right?”

As Gil again opened his mouth, Rupert captured his lips with another, more serious kiss. And just to get his point across that talking wasn’t a good idea at the moment, he reached up to Gil’s chest to play with one of his nipples. As distractions went, that particular activity had proven to be quite effective on Gil, and this time was no different. When Gil moaned and relaxed into the kiss, Rupert gave an approving grunt and allowed himself to concentrate fully on eliminating Gil’s ability to think, let alone to question.

With his eyes closed, Rupert didn’t immediately realize that something other than Gil was up. The sharp smell of alcohol eventually convinced him to open his eyes, and when he did —

Rupert’s, “Oh dear,” was a bit garbled, but only because Gil hadn’t given up the kiss yet. When Rupert refused to allow Gil near his mouth again, Gil moved down Rupert’s jaw to the junction of his neck and shoulder. “Is there something —” Gil bit down, and Rupert lost track of what he’d been trying to say.

Gil murmured, “You started this. Don’t blame me for wanting to finish it.”

Just as quietly, Rupert said, “I was actually trying to talk to the two people standing behind you.”

At that moment, the man stammered, “I — we — Sara and I —”

Gil went rigid at the sound of the voice, his only movement to further bury his head in Rupert’s shoulder.

When the man couldn’t continue, the woman, presumably Sara, tried with, “Nick and I just — we needed — it’s the Canego theft —” She shook her head in bewilderment and took a deep breath. “Grissom? When did you get a Hawaiian shirt?”

*****

Gil had only a split second to decide how he was going to handle this, and he used his time as fully as possible. He could pretend to be his hitherto unknown twin, and really, it might just work. Both Sara and Nick had shown themselves to be willing to buy into bizarre ideas, and if Gil kept a straight face — but no. He would ultimately have to deal with Catherine, who knew full well that he didn’t have any siblings. Gil could also apologize for embarrassing them. Though it wasn’t a horrible idea, it had the disadvantage of chipping away at the mask he normally wore at work. His third option was the only one that had a hope in hell of letting him get through the remainder of the shift with his dignity intact. Gil took a deep breath and turned, stepping away from Rupert and, thankfully, toward the table that prevented his CSIs from seeing just how aroused he was at the moment.

“Nick. Sara.” Gil gave them a pleasant, professional smile. “You two are in early tonight. Did I hear you say you have something for me on the Canego case?”

Nick and Sara looked at Gil then each other, obviously unable to figure out how to respond. Their stasis might have held for a while longer if not for the sudden intrusion of the cell phone lying on the counter. Rupert picked it up, and when Gil heard him quietly greet his caller, he raised his eyebrows at Nick and Sara and waited expectantly.

“We just —” Nick gave Sara a helpless look. In turn, she gave him a look that clearly told him he was on his own. If Gil hadn’t had so much at stake over how the next few minutes went, he might have started laughing instead of biting down on his cheek. Nick swallowed hard. “Sara said you wanted an update on it?”

His pleasant smile still firmly in place, Gil answered, “I’d love an update. Tell me what you have.”

*****

Rupert couldn’t recall ever being more grateful for the intrusion of a phone call. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed at having been caught kissing Gil. Rather, it was that they’d been caught kissing in such a public arena.

He moved away from Gil and toward the back corner before answering the call with, “Giles speaking.”

“Good evening, Dr. Giles.”

“Lilah. I might have known.” Rupert took his glasses off and bent his head down to keep his end of the conversation as private as possible. “I could have sworn we had another week to go at the retreat.”

“What can I say?” The ironic detachment had returned to her voice, and Rupert felt unaccountably saddened by that. “After you made it very clear that you weren’t interested, my supervisor didn’t see any reason to continue hosting you and your boyfriend.”

“So rather than give us a chance to get dressed in what we’d been wearing, you chose to send us back as is?” He was, in fact, genuinely upset. Two Christmases ago, Buffy had given him the tie he’d been wearing.

“Don’t worry. Your clothing will be delivered by special courier tomorrow morning.”

“And the sword?”

He was prepared to swear he heard her roll her eyes. “It’s the property of Wolfram and Hart.”

“Yes, I know that,” he snapped in a low voice. “Officially, however, the Las Vegas Crime Lab doesn’t know that, and they’ll be very unhappy if it disappears.”

“Fine.” Rupert might have believed she was bored and put out if not for the hint of humor underlying the word. “I’ll make sure it’s sent back as well. Tell Mr. Grissom that one of our people will be there tomorrow to file a claim for it. Happy now?”

“Not by a long shot.” He clenched his jaw against the urge to yell and instead asked quietly, “What were you playing at?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“You didn’t want me at Wolfram and Hart,” he said. “Why not?”

After a drawn out silence, she answered, “If you’d accepted our offer of employment, I might have told you.”

“What are you up to, Lilah?”

“Me? Why would I —” She broke off with a laugh. “I can’t play the innocent with a straight face.”

“I could have told you that two weeks ago,” Rupert muttered.

“Look, my reasons for not wanting you here are mostly my own, and they wouldn’t mean anything to you.” She paused — to drink something, it sounded like — then continued, “The only reason that might make any sense at all is that I never thought you would be a good fit for Wolfram and Hart.”

“You —” He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You have a bad habit of bucking authority at just the wrong moment,” she said, suddenly sounding more serious than she had during any of their other conversations. “And it’s not just that you’d get yourself killed — it’s also that you’d probably take a division or three down with you. The way my luck’s been running lately, I’d probably be caught in the backlash.”

“So that’s it?” Rupert bit his lower lip as he tried to poke holes in her story. He couldn’t, which made him suspect he was missing at least another sixty percent of the story.

“That’s it,” she said. “If there isn’t anything else —”

“Wait —”

When he didn’t say anything immediately, she prompted him with, “You wanted something else?”

“In fact, I did.” After a brief hesitation, he said, “I wanted to thank you.”

There was a moment of shocked silence and then, “Excuse me?”

“What you did — taking me out of my life for a bit — well. I needed that. It gave me perspective I’m not sure I would otherwise have gained.”

“You’re —”

“You did something good, Lilah,” he said, immediately biting down on his lips to prevent the chuckle that wanted to emerge.

“I did not! And if you tell anyone —”

“Gotcha,” he said softly before hanging up on her.

*****

So far, his plan was going well. Nick and Sara each settled into the rhythm of reporting on their progress, and they’d stopped glancing over at Rupert. Gil had high hopes that they would both repress the memory of walking in on them.

A few minutes later, those hopes died a brutal death at Nick’s hands.

Rather than leaving without comment the way Sara had, Nick turned at the door and said, “Don’t worry about me and Sara. We’ll keep this quiet.”

Thinking he still had a chance to pull off bald denial, Gil asked casually, “Keep what quiet?”

Nick’s cheeks warmed to pink as he said, “You know — your personal life. It’s no one’s business but yours, and I’ll make sure it stays that way.” Nick glanced in Rupert’s direction. “I’m glad you found someone to make you happy,” he added before finally leaving.

Gil dropped his chin to his chest and bit out a quiet and heartfelt, “Fuck.”

*****

The phone rang again almost immediately, and Rupert answered it without thinking. “Giles speaking.”

“Rupert! You’re there.” Quentin sounded relieved — almost grateful to have reached him. It wasn’t a mood that went well with either the man’s voice or his personality.

“What’s wrong?”

“Lavery called. He thinks he tracked down that sword of yours, and he’s fairly certain it belongs to Wolfram and Hart. He strongly cautions you not to touch any part of it.”

For all of two seconds, Rupert was touched by the worry in the other man’s voice. Then reality asserted itself and suggested that Quentin’s concern was professional, not personal.

“Your call came about five minutes too late,” he said. The conversation behind him had ended, and Rupert turned to see if he and Gil were alone again. They were, though Gil looked somewhat ill at the moment. Rupert couldn’t blame him, all things considered.

“What? I don’t understand.”

“I’ve already touched it —”

The silence spoke volumes to Rupert, as did the sick note in Quentin’s voice when he finally asked, “What happened?”

“Wolfram and Hart pulled me into a pocket dimension — where, by the way, they’ve stashed the Ashkerian Prophecy — and wined and dined me quite magnificently for two weeks. In fact, I can’t recall anyone ever having paid so much attention to my personal desires,” he said, feeling a small stab of vindictive pleasure. It didn’t quite make up for having been fired two years earlier, but it came close.

There was another pause before Quentin asked, “Why?”

Rupert made sure his voice conveyed just the right mixture of pleased disbelief and excitement when he answered, “They seem to think I would do well with their firm.” At that, Gil finally looked up and gave Rupert a puzzled look. Rupert winked in reply.

“What did they offer?” Rupert’s eyebrow went up. Of all the things Travers could have asked, that was the last thing he expected.

“Quite a lot, actually,” he answered, both to give himself a moment to think and to allow Quentin to twist in the wind.

“Tell me.”

Rupert mentioned the salary, smiling at the choked sound on the other end of the connection. “I have to admit that the amount is gratifying —” He laughed slightly, trying to sound embarrassed. “— Makes that lump sum you settled on me earlier this year look a pittance. But I think the signing bonus was even more impressive.”

“We can match the money, of course, and I’m certain we can match their other offer,” Quentin said in a small, tight voice.

It was all Rupert could do not to demand where the real Quentin Travers was, because the Travers he knew of old was a parsimonious bastard. Instead, he reined in his greedier impulses and said, “They told me they could get Ethan Rayne out of hock.”

“Not a chance. He’s where he deserves to be.”

“You’ve had my report on the Initiative. No one, not even Ethan, deserves that kind of treatment,” he said gravely.

“Rayne is a menace.”

“Yes, I know, Quentin.” Rupert shook his head in exasperation. Honestly. After all this time, did Travers think he was a complete idiot? “But he’s a menace the Council can easily keep locked up without resorting to torture, don’t you think?”

Quentin said hesitantly, “Then — you’re not proposing that he be set free?”

“Absolutely not,” Rupert answered with fervor. “All I’m asking is that the Council take him into custody.”

“You’re asking quite a lot, Rupert.”

His eyes met Gil’s, and he thought of the decision he’d come to a week earlier. Until he spoke it out loud, the decision could still be unmade — no. It was the correct decision, and if he could use it to get Ethan into a more suitable accommodation, then all the better.

He took a deep breath and said, “I’m prepared to come back to England if you do this for me.”

This time, there was no hesitation. “Done. I’ll get in touch with Senator McAuley tomorrow to make the arrangements. Will you escort Rayne back?”

“I have a few loose ends in Sunnydale —”

“Rupert —”

“I can’t just —” He broke off and took a moment to regain his composure. “I need to settle things with the shop and the others — let them know I’m leaving and help them prepare.”

“Prepare for what? For God’s sake, Rupert, they already know the girl is dead.”

“Yes, they do know she’s dead. They grieve for the friend they lost even as they carry on her legacy every night in every goddamned cemetery in Sunnydale,” he snapped in response. “They also know that I’ve provided answers for them for the last five years. When I leave, so does the last official presence of the Council and its resources. They’ll have to look to themselves for answers, and it won’t be easy on them.”

“They can call you any time, Rupert. I think I can even convince the finance committee to accept reverse charges from them.”

“I’m not a bloody textbook with arms, Quentin, I’m more than that. Whether you like it or not, I’m family to them, and they to me.” Rupert took a deep breath. “I can’t just leave without sufficient warning or preparation. I won’t do that to them.”

“Very well,” he said grudgingly.

“It will be a month or two before I can return,” Rupert said tightly, willing himself to calm down again.

“Let me know your plans when you’ve made them.” Quentin hung up before Rupert could say anything more.

Gil approached him. “So. You’re going back to England.”

“It’s for the best, really,” he said, feeling suddenly uncertain about his decision.

“Look, I have a shift to finish. Go back to my place, and we’ll talk when I get home.” Gil gave him a wry smile. “Maybe by that time, you’ll have convinced yourself that it’s a good idea.”

*****

Ten hours, fourteen blushing, speculative glances from Nick and eight puzzled frowns from Sara later, Gil pulled into his driveway. Where he sat and thought about his night. Getting back into the rhythm of work had proven to be more difficult than he imagined it would be. As he thought about it, he realized his imagination needed some work.

At least when they returned, the time difference was only five hours, so it was no worse than flying from New York to Hawaii. It was a blessing, since he hadn’t had much sleep the night before — or was it two nights before? A sleepless night followed by sex. Incredible sex. Awkward sex. Incredibly awkward sex. And did he remember to mention the awkwardly incredible sex?

Gil shook his head, hoping to move away from that train of thought before he embarrassed himself once more. Men his age should not be sprouting erections at odd moments the way he’d been doing throughout the evening. He’d found that unless he focused entirely on a conversation, he would start thinking about the way he could almost feel Rupert’s dick sliding in and out of his ass. The only thing that saved him from permanent embarrassment was the pair of baggy cargo shorts he’d been wearing during his sojourn at Wolfram and Hart’s retreat.

He sighed, thinking again about the shift. Eyebrows were raised over his shirt, but the real gossip was about his shorts. Who knew the women at the lab could get so worked up over knees? Gil looked down at them and tried to figure out why they were so interesting. After a few minutes, he gave up. Maybe Rupert could explain it, because Catherine sure as hell couldn’t. She’d been laughing too hard when she broke the news that there was a petition going around to convince Gil to wear shorts more often.

“Enough!” He slammed his hands onto the steering wheel, as much to focus on the here and now as to cause enough pain to kill another incipient erection.

Gil got out of his truck and headed to his front door. Once inside, he dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and put the bundle he’d carried in on the dining table. The bundle had been delivered via courier just before Gil left the lab for the day. Along with their clothing was the sword that had started everything in motion. Gil was happy to sign it back into evidence and happier still that he hadn’t given into the impulse to “lose” it by assigning the wrong bin number to it.

“Rupert?”

He heard quiet footsteps approach, and arms reached around him from behind. Rupert nuzzled his ear, asking softly, “How did your evening go? Are we the talk of your workplace?”

Gil turned within Rupert’s embrace and pulled him down for a kiss. And then a second kiss, because Rupert smelled so damn good. It was a clean scent, neither particularly feminine nor masculine. It reminded Gil of the desert after a wet season, when plants would get whatever growth in that they could before the water went away.

They were well on their way to a fourth and fifth kiss when Gil remembered —”Didn’t you ask me something?”

“Possibly,” Rupert murmured, mouthing his way along Gil’s jawline. “Can’t have been too important.”

“Don’t suppose you went to the store.” Gil unbuttoned Rupert’s jeans and eased the zipper down.

“A former colleague used to say —” Rupert gasped as Gil reached in to hold his dick. “— Used to say a Watcher’s key to success was preparation — just a bit harder — preparation — yes, like that — preparation.”

“Was this a close colleague?”

“Only in his — fuck!”

Gil watched Rupert carefully, gauging his every reaction. “Only in his what?”

“Dreams!” The word was gasped out as Gil changed his grip.

“Glad to hear it.” Gil gave a slightly firmer tug on Rupert’s dick, happy that finally, Rupert was the one losing it. “So, is it safe to assume that you purchased condoms and lubricant?”

“— Yes!” And then Rupert apparently decided that talking was useless, because he brought Gil in for more kissing. It was with a great deal of effort — never mind that he was batting at Rupert’s hands the way girls tended to fight — that Gil convinced those hands to go to the back of his head and leave his nipples alone. If he’d learned nothing else in the last few days, he’d learned that if he wanted to maintain some semblance of control around Rupert, nipples absolutely couldn’t be involved in the proceedings.

His own nipples, that is. Rupert’s nipples were still fair game, and it was with that in mind that he led his own assault on Rupert’s chest. No one had ever accused Gil of being slow-witted, and he used every trick on Rupert that Rupert had used on him. Gil rubbed Rupert’s nipple through his shirt, and when it hardened up nicely, he pinched it. The answering groan was enough to make Gil try to smile around Rupert’s tongue.

The smile didn’t work very well, but it did give him one or two ideas about how to deal with that cultured, sharp, sarcastic British tongue. Gil tightened his lips and sucked it deeper into his mouth before releasing it, only to suck it in again. Rupert responded by thrusting into Gil’s busy hand at roughly the same rhythm.

The thrusting and sucking started speeding up, and things might have ended in the next few minutes if Gil hadn’t chosen that moment to demonstrate that he was, in fact, capable of eventually dishing out revenge — hot and sweaty, not cold. With his free hand, Gil grasped the base of Rupert’s dick and stopped all motion as he broke off the kiss. At Rupert’s look of outraged frustration, Gil smiled and said, “Someone’s in a state.”

“Bastard.” Breathing heavily, Rupert brought his hands back to Gil’s shoulders and let his head drop, trembling slightly as he stood there.

“Payback’s a bitch.” Gil kissed Rupert’s cheek. “Ready to go to my room and get naked for a while?”

*****

They ended up in the guest room, which was where Rupert had left the supplies.

Clothing was shed with an eye to getting naked as quickly as possible rather than trying to arouse — their earlier greeting had accomplished that readily enough. As soon as they were both naked, Rupert pulled Gil to him in a full body embrace, trapping their cocks between them. He pressed his hips forward, groaning, “Yes,” when Gil responded in kind.

Rupert had no idea how he’d managed to forget completely just how absolutely incredible it was to rub his cock along one that was equally hard. He decided that in the future, he would have to remind himself as frequently as possible. Still, as wonderful as it felt, it wasn’t nearly enough. He urgently needed to be inside Gil again, and he was quite prepared to insist that it was a matter of life and death.

They were kissing again, and there wasn’t a damn thing tender about it. Lips and teeth mashed together as they each tried to crawl into the skin of the other. It was only by dint of a series of grunts and nudges that Rupert was finally able to get Gil moving in the direction of the bed. When they fell on it, Gil landed on top of Rupert, his hips working even harder, now that neither was standing.

As soon as Rupert realized his own hips were working just as hard as Gil’s he gave up the notion of being able to fuck him properly. They were worse than randy teenagers, and neither of them would last much longer.

Rupert heard a high, desperate noise and was surprised to find that it was coming from his own throat, not Gil’s. It was the last intelligent thought he had as he moved heedlessly toward his climax. The pressure of imminent release increased with every shift of their hips, but it wasn’t until Gil sucked on Rupert’s neck that he came, shouting incoherently.

He was still jerking helplessly when Gil followed him over the edge.

*****

One nap, two showers and one shared mealtime later, Gil said, “Weren’t we going to talk about something when I got home?”

“I believe so.” Rupert stood up and carried his plate and glass to the kitchen. He hadn’t bothered putting anything on after his shower, so Gil was treated to his own private floor show. “But then someone — you, I believe — turned a simple welcome home into a disgraceful bacchanal.”

“Couldn’t have been a bacchanal. I didn’t open the wine until just before we ate.” Gil finished his Riesling and stood to clear his own place settings. He hadn’t bothered to get dressed either.

“We nearly buggered each other silly in your lounge,” Rupert said, the amusement in his eyes giving lie to the severity in his voice.

“No. You were the one who lost all sense of decency. I was the one who reminded you to control yourself.” Gil put his dish and glass into the sink then yelped when Rupert pinched his bottom.

“I seem to recall you being a bit of a bastard.”

Gil narrowed his eyes as he looked at Rupert. “If you’re trying to play the wounded party, give it up. I’m not buying it.”

Rupert’s response was to look even more wounded and put upon. Gil just laughed.

“Oh well. It was worth a try. What were we talking about?”

“We were talking about the fact that we were going to talk when I got home this morning.” Gil put the leftover stew into the refrigerator and finished wiping down the counter. He could always do dishes before work that night.

“Right.” Rupert sighed. “England.”

“Let’s head to my room. I have a feeling we’ll be more comfortable there.”

*****

Rupert crawled under the covers and Gil rolled onto his side to look at him. It was too much — Gil was entirely too perceptive for Rupert’s comfort, so he put his arm around Gil and pulled him to his chest. At least this way, he could talk about his decision without having to see Gil’s reaction. It didn’t hurt that Gil seemed to fit along his side rather perfectly.

Settled in, Gil asked, “You’ve decided to go back to England just to free this Rayne character?”

With his nose just touching Gil’s hair, Rupert answered, “No. I decided to go back to England well before Lilah brought Ethan into the equation.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure, precisely, but it was within a day or two of my little upset.” And Rupert still blushed to think of how spectacularly he’d lost control with Gil that day. He’d very nearly decked the man for calling Buffy’s death a suicide, and never mind that he himself had described in his journal that she’d leapt deliberately. Actually hearing the word said aloud — it had been too much to deal with. And it still was, if he was honest with himself.

Gil pushed himself deeper into Rupert’s embrace. “You didn’t sound to sure of yourself earlier.”

“It was a natural reaction, I think, to realizing that I would no longer have half a world between me and the Council,” he answered lightly.

“Rupert —”

After a pause, he said, “Leaving Sunnydale will be difficult. Buffy’s friends, her sister — they’ve become family.”

“You don’t have to leave, you know,” was Gil’s soft rejoinder.

“I do, though.” Rupert sighed. “Travers — my supervisor — told me before I came here that it wasn’t healthy for me to remain, and he’s right, loath as I am to admit it. For me, Sunnydale is nothing but a constant reminder that Buffy is dead.”

Gil squeezed Rupert’s hand. “You could stay for a while. You’d still be near the others, but you’d be away from Sunnydale.”

“Believe me, I’ve considered it.” He dropped a kiss on Gil’s head. “The problem is that I have nothing to do in Vegas — aside from you that is.” He laughed quietly when Gil swatted him then continued more seriously, “At least in Sunnydale, I have my shop, and I can patrol. Here, I’d be bored within a day or three.”

Moving restlessly, Gil asked, “What will you do in England?”

Rupert shrugged. “Probably run a seminar at Oxford for Watchers in training. There’s also the British Museum. The Board sent me a letter two weeks ago asking if I’d be interested in working for them as a consultant — Travers’ doing, no doubt.”

At that, Gil craned his head around to look at Rupert. “The British Museum? The British Museum?”

Confused by Gil’s tone, Rupert’s eyebrows drew together. “Well. Yes. I was a curator there before I moved to Sunnydale.”

“You went from being a curator at the British Museum to being a librarian at a public high school?”

Gil’s astonishment finally made sense to Rupert. “No. I went from being an inactive Watcher to being the Slayer’s Watcher. Trust me — it was a promotion.”

“Incredible,” he said softly. “When I read your monographs on ancient blades, all they —”

“You read my monographs?” Rupert pushed himself up, dislodging Gil in the process. “The only ones I wrote were completed whilst I finished my degree at Oxford, and they were never published. Where the hell did you find them?”

Gil sat up. “We recovered them with the sword. That’s how I knew to look for you.”

“You looked for me specifically?” Rupert frowned as he tried to make sense of this latest bit of information. “How did you know how to get in touch?”

“The contact information on the article included a number for the British Society of Antiquities.” Gil cocked his head. “You’re a member, right?”

“Of course I’m a member,” he said distractedly. “It’s one of the foundations run by the Council of Watchers. They use it when it’s necessary to retrieve a potentially dangerous mystical object. That still doesn’t explain how you were able to reach me. At the time I wrote the monographs, I hadn’t yet been accepted back into the fold. And, of course, there’s the matter of them never having been published.”

“They were photocopied articles. The name of the journal was too blurry to read, but they definitely looked like they’d been published.”

“I don’t —” Rupert’s mind moved very quickly, and when the final pieces dropped neatly into the puzzle, he started laughing helplessly.

“Rupert?” Gil’s eyebrow went up. “You want to share the joke?”

“It’s Lilah,” he said, laughing even harder. “I knew she didn’t want me to join Wolfram and Hart, but —”

“I don’t get it.”

“Think about it, Gil.” Rupert shook his head at the woman’s effrontery. “Lilah was determined to make sure I didn’t sign up. If I’d shown up alone and in that particular state of grief, there’s every chance I would have signed with them.”

Gil’s eyebrows drew together as he worked the evidence. “You think she made sure I would end up there with you.”

“And she managed it in such a way to make it look like an accident.” Rupert continued thinking about it, adding, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find that she arranged for a compulsion spell to make you touch the sword at the wrong moment.”

“Jesus.”

“She’s a formidable opponent,” Rupert agreed.

“Did she tell you anything when she called?”

Rupert’s eyes narrowed. “No, she didn’t. And that’s another good reason to return to England. The Council’s library isn’t as extensive as Wolfram and Hart’s, but it’s certainly more comprehensive than my own.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Gil said.

“I’m not sure I do, either, but there may be an answer in the prophecy section.” Rupert looked up just in time to see the look of distaste cross Gil’s face at the mention of prophecies. He decided to say nothing. With his imminent departure, there was no reason to upset Gil anymore than absolutely necessary.

They sat in contemplation for a few minutes, each lost in his own thoughts, when Gil finally asked, “When are you going back to Sunnydale?”

“Tonight, I think. After you go to work. If I stay here too long, I may never leave.”

Gil lifted his hand, but did nothing with it. Instead, he said softly, “I’ll miss you.”

“And I you.”

*****

Rupert was packed and standing near the entryway when Gil emerged from the shower, wrapped only in a towel. “I can get the nine o’clock flight if I leave right now.”

Surprised by how upset he was over the thought of Rupert leaving so quickly, Gil stood still for a moment to collect himself. When he felt reasonably calm again, he said, “I’ll get dressed and drive you.”

“No, no,” Rupert answered, patting his pockets for something. “I’ve already called a taxi, so there’s no need for you to be bothered.”

“It’s not a bother.” Something in Gil’s voice must have caught Rupert’s attention, because he looked up suddenly.

“I know. But I’ve never been one for long goodbyes, and airports seem to bring out the worst maudlin impulses in people.” Rupert patted the left breast of his jacket, and he pulled out a piece of paper with an air of triumph. “Here it is.” He held it out. “Before I left, I wanted to give you this.”

Gil accepted the paper and found a neatly written list of five names and phone numbers. “Who are they?”

“Any one of them should be able to help you with your magic.” When Gil started to protest, Rupert raised his hand. “Whether you like it or not, you’ve already opened Pandora’s Box on this one. You have sufficient natural talent that one of these days, it’s going to start manifesting on its own.”

“But —”

“You need to learn control, Gil.” A car horn sounded outside, and Rupert stammered, “Madame Fong recommended Mrs. Graham as the best teacher, though she did caution that the woman was rather keen on discipline. If she won’t take you as a student, any of the others will be quite effective.”

The horn sounded again, and Gil looked at the door with dismay. “But —” Rupert pulled Gil close for one last, hard kiss then picked up his bags and left without a second glance.

In a way, it was too fast. Gil hadn’t had time to adjust to the idea of Rupert being gone. In another way, it wasn’t nearly fast enough. He almost wished he’d still been in bed when Rupert left, because then he could shove those confusing thoughts and emotions into the back of his mind and claim they were due entirely to Rupert leaving without saying goodbye.

Gil stood there for a long time before looking at the list once more. It took a moment to focus on the names and not on the idea of Rupert leaving Las Vegas. He didn’t know if he would call any of them, but he went to his desk and put a star next to Heather Graham’s name. At least he would remember the recommendation if the time should come when he needed it.

It took his cell phone to get him moving again, and he was grateful for the distraction of Jim’s call. A new case meant he could avoid thinking about magic and Rupert’s discomfiting warnings. Instead, he could focus on the evidence and using science to interpret it.

Still getting the particulars from Jim, Gil headed back to his room to get dressed for his next shift.


End file.
